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WHAT   WAS   ONE  TO  DO   WITH   A   BIG,   SATANIC   CROW   THAT 

SPOILED  ONE'S  DAY  DREAMS?" — Page  60 


WORLD'S  END 


BY 

AMELIE   RIVES 

(PRINCESS  TROUBETZKOY) 

AUTHOR  OF 
THE  QUICK  OR  THE  DEAD,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

ALONZO  KIMBALL 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET   &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1911,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1913,  1911,  by 
P.  F.  COIJJEH  &  SON,  INC. 


All  right*  reserved,  including  that  of  trantltlion  into  foreign 
languages,  including  the  Scandinavian 


FIFTH    PRINTING 


April.  1914 


TO 

MY  FRIEND 
DR.  FREDERICK  PETERSON 

\MTH  GRATEFUL 
AFFECTION 


WORLD'S  -  END 


RANDOLPH  and  his  nephew,  Richard  Bryce, 
came  out  of  the  Ritz-Carlton  together  and  got  into 
Randolph's  motor-car. 

It  was  January.  Through  scudding  drift  stole  a  small, 
sad,  tarnished,  wondering  moon,  ineffectual  against  the  in 
solent,  lilac- white  glare  of  the  arc-lamps. 

The  car  crossed  Fifty-ninth  Street,  and  the  brazen  horse 
of  the  Sherman  Statue,  with  its  angel  groom,  seemed  to 
leap  at  them.  A  few  moments  more  brought  them  to  the 
door  of  the  house  on  Fifth  Avenue,  where,  after  some 
tableaux,  Auguste  was  to  dance  that  night. 

A  footman  in  powder  and  knee-breeches  sauntered  up 
and  helped  them  off  with  their  overcoats  in  the  semi-pro 
fessional,  semi-negligent  manner  of  one  rehearsing  a  do 
mestic  's  part  in  private  theatricals. 

As  they  entered  the  ballroom  the  curtains  were  about  to 
be  drawn  aside  from  a  small  stage.  In  the  dull  light  they 
could  see  the  blonde  blur  of  women's  arms  and  shoulders 
among  the  dark  mass  of  the  men's  black-coated  backs,  and 
an  occasional  gleam  from  one  of  the  gilded  chairs.  The 
atmosphere  seemed  close  and  murky  after  the  thin  rigour 
of  the  outside  air. 

Richard  slipped  into  an  empty  chair,  but  Randolph  re 
mained  standing.  He  was  such  a  big  man  that  to  fold 
himself  up  in  a  small  space  for  any  length  of  time  caused 
him  acute  discomfort. 

A  youth  who  was  on  the  stage  before  the  curtains  now 
made  some  witty  remarks,  well  peppered  with  indiscreet 
personalities,  at  which  there  was  a  little  flurry  of  appre 
ciative  laughter. 

The  tableau  that  followed  was  startling.  In  front  of  a 
large  cage  sat  a  lovely  girl  in  Oriental  costume.  Within 

1 


2  WORLD'S-END 

the  cage  a  monstrous  figure  suddenly  upreared  itself — a 
huge  man  clad  in  shaggy  hide  to  represent  an  ape.  A 
movable  jaw  with  great  fangs  and  a  cushion  of  red  tongue 
were  adjusted  to  his  face. 

Thrusting  out  one  arm,  he  caught  at  the  young  woman 's 
veil.  She  eluded  him  and  began  a  slow  dance  of  allure 
ment.  Suddenly,  from  some  portion  of  her  gauzy  dress, 
she  drew  forth  a  slice  of  raw  meat  and  gave  it  to  the 
monster.  He  took  it,  tested  it  between  his  fangs,  threw  it 
down,  and,  breaking  the  bars  of  his  cage,  rushed  at  the 
tantalising  houri.  Lightly  casting  her  long  chain  of  pearls 
about  his  neck,  she  led  him  from  the  scene.  A  rustle  of 
whispers  ended  the  applause.  People  were  evidently  at  a 
loss  as  to  the  meaning  of  this  sjanbolic  drama. 

The  next  tableau  consisted  of  a  big  canvas  on  which  was 
painted  a  spirited  chestnut  filly  with  up-flung  heels.  Where 
a  horse's  head  should  have  been  there  looked  out  the  beau 
tiful,  mischievous  face  of  the  loveliest  woman  in  New 
York.  As  if  just  smitten  by  the  heels  of  the  Centauress, 
a  little  Satyr,  in  evening-dress,  rolled  helpless,  its  head 
supplied  by  that  of  a  well-known  man. 

"Why  don't  you  look  where  you're  going?"  said  the 
Centauress. 

"Alas!  that's  why  I'm  here,"  replied  the  Satyr. 

A  gale  of  laughter  and  bravos  greeted  them;  then  the 
curtains  fell  for  the  last  time,  the  lights  were  turned  on, 
and  the  servants  began  to  clear  the  room  for  dancing. 

As  the  lights  went  up,  Randolph  saw  all  about  him  the 
people  that  he  had  known  for  many  years,  but  had  not  seen 
often  during  the  past  three  or  four.  He  glanced  quickly 
from  woman  to  woman,  thinking  how  little  they  had 
changed,  and  how  the  saying  that  American  beauties  wither 
early  was  a  mistaken  one. 

A  little,  fair,  paunchy,  mild-faced  man,  the  husband  of 
one  of  these  beauties,  hailed  him  suddenly  as  "old  chap" 
and  remarked  that  Randolph  reminded  him  of  an  African 
explorer  ...  he  was  so  very  sunburnt  and  looked  so 
aloof  somehow.  Randolph  replied  to  this  with  some  banal 
ity,  and  then  all  at  once  the  little  man  began  to  tell  him 
about  his  pet  bullfinch.  He  said  that  the  capacity  of  bull 
finches  for  affection  was  immense,  and  that  his  pet  was  in 
the  habit  of  alighting  on  his  head  in  the  morning  and,  press 
ing  down  its  little  wings  on  either  side  of  his  forehead  in  a 
sort  of  embrace,  bursting  into  song. 


WORLD'S-END  3 

Randolph  looked  at  the  little  man  while  he  told  this 
anecdote,  and  liked  him  for  it.  The  lack  of  self-conscious 
ness  that  could  allow  a  man  to  paint  himself  in  so  absurd 
a  guise  struck  him  as  simple  and  appealing.  Then,  just  as 
he  was  about  to  reply,  the  bullfinch's  master  slid  into  an 
anecdote  filthy  and  silly. 

Randolph  turned  away,  saying  that  he  must  go  and  speak 
to  his  sister,  and  the  vision  pursued  him  all  the  evening 
of  a  round-bellied,  sentimental-eyed  little  man,  with  a  bull 
finch  perched  upon  the  crown  of  his  bald  head,  pouring 
forth  its  innocent  roulades,  while  a  stream  of  salacious  in 
anities  issued  from  the  human  mouth  below. 

Mrs.  Bryce  was  standing  near  one  of  the  doors,  talking 
to  a  young  man.  who  turned  away  as  Randolph  approached. 
She  was  a  very  thin  woman,  but  beautifully  made,  tall  and 
dark,  like  her  brother.  The  most  striking  feature  in  her 
face  was  her  black,  narrow  eyebrows,  which  lifted  with  an 
effect  of  fretfulness  as  they  neared  the  nose.  Her  mouth 
was  at  the  same  time  querulous  and  restrained,  as  though 
she  had  a  slight  grievance  against  life  \vhich  she  preferred 
not  to  mention,  but  the  lips  were  prettily  shaped,  and 
touched  this  evening  with  carmine,  Randolph  noticed.  He 
thought  it  hardened  her,  but  it  was  undoubtedly  becoming. 
She  had  the  merest  wing-brush  of  grey  at  either  temple, 
although  she  was  now  fifty-one. 

As  Sally  Randolph  she  had  been  one  of  the  beauties  of 
Virginia,  and  as  Mrs.  Peter  Bryce  she  had  continued  her 
triumphant  career  in  New  York  until  poor  Peter's  losses 
broke  up  their  social  life. 

Randolph's  generosity  had  kept  them  from  anything  like 
poverty,  but  of  course  the  house  on  Fifth  Avenue  and  the 
place  in  Newport  had  to  go  ...  though  in  her  heart  Sally 
had  felt  that  Owen  would  have  indulged  her  in  keeping 
these  also.  At  this  point,  however,  Peter  had  grown  ob 
stinate,  and  his  "No"  wras  not  to  be  melted,  shattered,  or 
put  aside.  Nine  years  ago  poor  Peter  had  died  in  the 
effort  of  making  a  second  fortune,  and  his  wife  was  left 
with  an  income  of  only  two  thousand  a  year.  Since  then 
she  had  lived  part  of  the  time  at  "  World 's-End,"  her 
brother's  estate  in  Virginia,  and  part  in  the  charming  flat 
he  had  furnished  for  her  in  New  York.  A  year  after  his 
father's  death  her  son  Richard  had  gone  to  Paris  in  quest 
of  art,  and  it  was  now  three  months  since  his  return.  Ran 
dolph  also  had  been  absent  from  both  New  York  and  Vir- 


4  WORLD'S-END 

ginia  for  several  months,  in  the  study  of  educational  ques 
tions  which  he  thought  might  help  him  with  the  people 
at  "  World  's-End";  and  was  but  just  returned  from  a 
visit  to  Miss  Berry's  Schools  in  Georgia.  It  was  with  the 
view  of  also  studying  Richard  as  veneered  by  France 
that  he  had  asked  him  to  dine  at  the  Ritz-Carlton  that 
evening. 

Richard  was  Mrs.  Bryce's  only  child,  and  one  of  her 
suppressed  grievances  against  life  was  the  constant  torment 
afforded  her  by  the  idea  that  his  Tolstoian  sympathies 
might  so  gain  upon  her  brother  as  to  induce  him  to  divide 
his  great  riches  among  the  poor  and  leave  Richard  with 
only  a  few  paltry  thousands.  It  had  been  long  under 
stood  among  the  three  that  Richard  was  to  be  his  uncle's 
heir,  in  case  that  Randolph  did  not  marry. 

Mrs.  Bryce,  knowing  her  brother  in  some  ways  very  well, 
considered  that  as  he  had  reached  the  age  of  forty-seven 
without  marrying  he  could  be  safely  regarded  as  a  fixed 
bachelor. 

Yet  as  she  looked  at  him  now  she  wondered  anew,  as  she 
often  did,  how  this  had  happened,  for  there  was  nothing 
ascetic  or  monkish  about  Owen — on  the  contrary,  his  hazel 
eyes  and  deeply  cut  mouth  were  full  of  humour  and  tem 
perament. 

"Do  you  find  Richard  much  changed?"  she  asked 
abruptly. 

Randolph  returned  her  concentrated  gaze  with  the  flicker 
of  a  smile. 

"He'll  be  'worse  before  he's  better,'  Sally  ...  as  Han 
nah  used  to  tell  me." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  demanded  his  sister  with  a  nerv 
ous  twitch  of  her  petulant  eyebrows.  "Do  you  think  that 
Paris  has  .  .  .  Aarmedhim?" 

"Why,  no,  Sally  .  .  .  don't  be  a  goose.  Paris  has  no 
special  brew  for  poisoning  a  youth.  If  he  wants  poison  he 
can  find  it  here  in  New  York  just  as  well  as  in  Paris.  I 
mean  that  he's  got — I  find  myself  quoting  Hannah  again — 
'notions  in  his  head.'  : 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  me  on  tenter-hooks  like  this," 
said  Mrs.  Bryee  peevishly.  ' '  I  wish  you  'd  say  what  you  've 
got  to  say  about  my  boy  quite  plainly,  Owen.  In  a  second 
or  two  somebody  is  sure  to  interrupt  us." 

Randolph  could  not  resist  teasing  her. 

"There's  very  good  stuff  in  the  lad  indeed,"  said  he, 


WORLD'S-END  5 

"but  at  present  there's  too  much,  embroidery  for  the  ma 
terial." 

His  sister  looked  at  him  with  real  anger  and  he  repented 
of  his  frivolity. 

' '  In  other  words  ...  in  the  plain  language  I  asked  you 
to  speak  .  .  .  you  mean  that  you  consider  Richard  a  pre 
tentious  noodle,"  she  remarked,  before  he  could  utter  the 
sentence  that  he  was  hastening  to  frame. 

"Dear  Sally,  I  meant  nothing  of  the  sort,"  he  said,  hold 
ing  her  with  his  kind  eyes.  ''Don't  be  cross.  It  would 
be  a  fine  thing  for  us  to  quarrel  over  Richard  of  all  people. 
The  boy  has  talent.  I  suppose  you  don't  really  want  me 
to  tell  you  that  he  is  Michael  Angelo  and  Shakespeare  in 
one?" 

"  I  'm  not  aware  that  I  've  ever  given  you  reason  to  think 
that  I  considered  Richard  the  reincarnation  of  those  two 
worthies,"  observed  Mrs.  Bryce  Avith  a  stiffness  so  like 
Richard's  on  such  occasions  that  Randolph  with  difficulty 
suppressed  a  smile.  "He  has  never  been  really  congenial 
to  you,"  she  added  bitterly,  noticing  the  abnormal  serious 
ness  of  his  expression  caused  by  the  effort  to  keep  from 
smiling,  and  realising  with  her  quick  hyper-sensitiveness 
exactly  what  originated  it. 

"My  dear  girl,"  exclaimed  Randolph,  "this  must  really 
stop.  It  would  be  too  foolish  of  us  to  get  at  cross-purposes 
over  Richard.  I'm  fond  of  him,  as  you  know.  What  real 
congeniality  there  can  be  between  a  boy  of  twenty-six  who 
looks  upon  the  Universe  as  a  vast  studio  and  a  man  of 
forty-seven  who  regards  it  as  a  confoundedly  trying  school 
I  leave  it  to  your  own  wits  to  divine.  Richard  is  at  an 
age  when  his  enthusiasms  give  him  keener  delight  than  they 
do  his  fellows — his  middle-aged  fellows,  at  least — that  is 
all." 

Mrs.  Bryce  turned  this  over  for  a  second  or  two. 

"Have  you  made  out  what  it  is  exactly  that  he  washes 
to  do?"  she  asked  at  length. 

"I  believe  he  intends  to  reform  the  art  and  morals  of 
America,"  he  replied  demurely.  "At  least,  'reform'  is  the 
word  that  he  would  use.  I  doubt  whether  even  you,  my 
dear  Sally,  would  agree  with  him  as  to  its  appositeness. ' ' 

Mrs.  Bryce  knit  her  brows  at  him.  He  saw  the  sym 
bolical  chip  upon  her  shoulder. 

' '  Why  do  you  say  '  even  me '  ? "  she  demanded  sharply. 

"Because,  however  ardently,  as  a  devoted  mother,  you 


6  WORLD'S-END 

might  long  to  agree  with  your  son, — as  an  avowed  sup 
porter  of  the  existing  social  order,  you  would  be  bound  as 
vehemently  to  differ  from  him." 

' '  What  dreadful  things  has  that  boy  been  saying  now  ? ' ' 
asked  his  mother  with  simple  anxiety. 

"Oh,  just  a  few  passing  whacks  at  marriage  and  religion. 
They  seem  to  him  inartistic,"  said  Randolph,  laughing. 
"Come,  Sally  .  .  .  don't  look  so  tragic.  You  aren't  going 
to  take  all  this  froth  of  youth  for  the  brew  underneath, 
are  you?" 

He  saw  in  her  eyes  a  real  dread. 

"Owen  ...  he  has  always  talked  like  that.  It  isn't 
only  froth.  The  dregs  are  in  it."  Then  she  caught  her 
self  up.  "He  thinks  it's  clever,"  she  said.  "He  likes  to 
startle  us." 

Her  brother  just  touched  her  hand  as  they  stood  to 
gether  near  the  door. 

' '  Well  .  .  .  don 't  take  it  too  seriously, ' '  he  said,  and  she 
gave  him  a  warm,  deep  glance,  as  fleeting  as  his  touch  had 
been,  but  which  told  him.  more  plainly  than  words  could 
have  done  how  sincere  was  her  affection  for  him,  despite 
her  wayward,  testy  temper. 

Then,  as  she  had  foreseen,  they  were  interrupted  and, 
leaving  her  with  a  knot  of  friends,  Randolph  went  across 
to  speak  with  the  mauve-eyed  English  lady  who  had  played 
the  Centauress  in  the  tableau,  and  who  was  signalling  to 
him.  On  his  way  through  the  crowded  room  he  caught  a 
bit  of  innocuous  gossip  that  pleased  his  sense  of  fun.  A 
woman  was  saying  to  another : 

"My  dear!  You've  been  too  long  away!  Don't  you 
know  that  Lola  Sibley  has  just  had  a  baby?" 

"Is  she  pleased?" 

"Of  course.  And  now  they're  going  to  Egypt  and  tak 
ing  Tootie  with  them." 

"Who  is  Tootie?     The  baby?" 

"No — the  fox-terrier.  The  baby  is  to  stay  with  its 
grandmother." 

Randolph  was  smiling  so  pleasedly  over  these  remarks 
when  he  reached  Mrs.  Beresford  (such  was  the  mauve-eyed 
lady's  name)  that  she  said,  "You've  heard  some  delicious 
stupidity.  I  know  that  particular  expression  of  yours  so 
well.  What  was  it?" 

"Just  about  Tootie 's  going  to  Egypt  and  the  baby  stop 
ping  with  its  grandmother." 


WORLD'S-END  7 

"Oh,  yes!  Hadn't  you  heard  that  before?  It's  been  to 
and  fro  over  New  York  for  days,  like  the  dove  over  the 
waters.  Poor  dears!  I  believe  the  baby  rather  scares 
them.  But  don't  let's  talk  of  Lola  Sibley,"  she  went  on. 
"It's  so  nice  to  have  you  with  us  again.  When  are  you 
going  back  to  Virginia?  You  do  love  that  old  place  of 
yours  dreadfully,  don't  you?  It's  so  very  nice  and  so  odd, 
too,  to  see  an  American  so  fond  of  a  place.  But  I  suppose 
you  call  yourself  a  Virginian — eh?" 

"A  Virginian  first,  perhaps,"  admitted  Randolph,  smil 
ing.  "It's  in  the  blood,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know  .  .  .  'John  Randolph  of  Roanoke'  and  all 
that." 

Randolph  laughed  out  this  time. 

"I'm  afraid  that  ancestral  personage  was  a  bit  of  a 
scalawag,"  said  he. 

"Ancestral  personages  generally  are,"  said  Mrs.  Beres- 
ford. 

"Then  it's  fortunate  that  I'm  not  going  to  be  one,  isn't 
it?"  returned  Randolph,  who  enjoyed  this  light  chaffing 
after  his  months  of  conscientious  grind. 

Mrs.  Beresford's  match-making  instinct  was  alert  in  an 
instant. 

"Aren't  you  really  ever  going  to  marry?"  asked  she 
with  true  British  frankness.  "It's  no  end  of  a  shame.  I 
know  a  perfect  darling  of  a  girl  for  you.  She's  in  this 
very  room." 

' '  Now.  .  .  .  Now  ..."  said  Randolph  warningly.  ' '  Do 
you  want  me  to  rush  off  for  safety  to  '  World 's-End'  the 
first  evening  that  I  have  seen  you  in  a  year?" 

Mrs.  Beresford  narrowed  her  white  lids  slightly  and 
looked  at  him  as  sternly  as  eyes  that  resembled  periwinkle- 
flowers  could  look. 

"You  may  joke,"  said  she,  "but  I  think  it's  shameful 
of  you  not  to  marry." 

Randolph  begged  to  know  why  in  the  world  she  thought 
it  "shameful." 

"Because  you  are  depriving  some  woman  of  such  a  duck 
of  a  husband,"  retorted  she.  and  they  both  laughed. 

But  the  next  moment  she  became  serious  again.  "Apart 
from  joking,"  she  said,  "you  really  ought  to  have  a  son 
to  inherit  your  fortune  and  that  Virginia  estate  you  love 
so  much." 

' '  And  poor  Richard  .  .  .  why  should  his  nose  be  put  out 


8  WORLD'S-END 

of  joint  at  such  inconvenience  to  me?  Don't  you  like 
Richard?" 

"Yes.  I  do.  I  more  than  like  him.  I  think  he's  won 
derful.  I  think  he 's  a  genius.  But  a  genius  ought  to  make 
his  own  fortune. ' ' 

"Geniuses  aren't  famous  for  making  fortunes,"  said 
Randolph  gravely.  ' '  But,  tell  me,  why  do  you  think  Rich 
ard  a  genius?" 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Beresford,  "it's  his  wonderful  talk— 
for  one  thing.  He's  the  most  brilliant  talker  I  ever  heard. 
He's  too  young,  you  know,  to  have  done  anything  much 
yet  awhile.  But  what  I  have  seen  of  his  work  I  think 
extraordinary — so  utterly  original.  Surely  you  think  it 
original?" 

"I  haven't  seen  it  yet.  I'm  going  to  his  studio  tomor 
row  afternoon." 

"How  nicei  So  am  I.  I'm  really  very  keen  to  know 
what  you'll  think  of  his  work.  Haven't  you  read  any  of 
his  latest  poems?" 

; '  Not  yet, ' '  said  Randolph.    ' '  Have  you  ? ' ' 

"No — but  he  has  read  some  of  them  to  me.  They  are 
most  original !  He  has  discovered  a  new  rhythm  or  beat  or 
something  of  the  kind  in  verse.  It's  a  little  beyond  me — 
I'm  not  literary,  you  know — but  the  effect  is  wonderful." 

Randolph  said  that  this  reminded  him  of  a  Latinist  of 
his  acquaintance  who  had  discovered  a  new  method  of 
scansion  which  allowed  one  to  read  Cassar's  Commentaries 
as  rhythmically  as  though  they  were  the  Georgics  of  Virgil. 

Mrs.  Beresford  gave  him  a  shrewd  glance  and  said : 

"I  believe  you  are  'poking  fun'  at  me,  but  all  the  same 
Richard's  verses  are  remarkable.  They're  so  soaked  with 
colour.  You  seem  to  see  it  waving  up  in  spirals  from 
the  pages  as  he  reads.  And  he's  so  charming  to  look  at. 
Just  watch  him  as  he  stands  there  talking  to  that  girl  in 
lavender.  You  feel  somehow  that  a  man  who  looks  like 
that  must  do  original  work.  The  very  way  he  dresses  is 
a  bit  of  perfect  art." 

Randolph  looked  at  his  nephew's  young,  thin  silhouette, 
seen  partly  against  the  lavender  frock  and  partly  against 
the  white-and-gold  panelling  of  the  wall,  and  was  pleasantly 
struck  by  its  distinction.  The  high,  black-satin  stock  of  the 
"thirties,"  and  the  reticent,  suave  cut  of  the  evening  coat 
with  its  black- velvet  lapels,  suited  admirably  the  lank  young 
figure  and  long,  ivory-toned  face.  The  small,  neatly 


WORLD'S-END  9 

shaped  skull,  however,  struck  him  as  being  too  much  de 
veloped  in  front,  and  too  little  in  the  back.  Richard 
moved  his  hands  a  great  deal  when  he  talked, — long,  leaf- 
like  hands  that  seemed  as  light  as  paper  from  this  dis 
tance. 

Randolph,  who  believed  that  a  man 's  outward  appearance 
often  corresponds  with  his  artistic  work,  thought  that  there 
would  probably  be  a  good  deal  of  self-conscious  artifice  in 
Richard's  writings — " Chinoiserie,"  he  called  it  to  himself. 

A  rustle  of  expectation  stirred  the  room. 

' '  Ah — it 's  Auguste  coming.    Have  you  seen  him  dance  ? ' ' 

"Not  yet." 

"Neither  have  I.  But  I'm  dying  to.  Richard  says  that 
his  dancing  is  the  harmonic  of  rhythmic  violence  to  which 
life  is  set. ' ' 

"Richard  takes  delightful  liberties  with  words,"  said 
Randolph,  amused.  "The  harmonic,  as  well  as  I  remem 
ber,  is  the  secondary  or  overtone.  Now,  I  should  have 
thought  that  Richard  meant  to  say  that  ..." 

Here  Auguste  and  his  mate  in  dancing  wafted  into  the 
room  on  a  light  wind  of  music,  and  Randolph  did  not 
finish  his  sentence. 


II 

O  ANDOLPH  watched  the  dancers  at  first  rather  than  the 
•*•*'  dance. 

"  'My  country  'tis  of  thee  .  .  ."'he  reflected.  "Where 
else  in  this  broad  world  would  mothers  bring  their  young 
daughters  to  see  Auguste  dance?" 

Auguste  had  a  good-natured,  impudent  face,  with  round 
nostrils  and  round,  dark  blue  eyes,  bland  with  a  serene 
effrontery.  He  was  of  medium  height,  well-knit  and  agile 
with  the  grace  that  is  expressive  of  a  springlike  strength 
beneath.  He  held  his  partner  to  him  by  a  hand  spread 
flat  between  her  shoulders, — the  gesture  of  a  feline  that  has 
put  his  sheathed  paw  lightly  on  some  object,  yet  means 
to  hold  by  its  claws  if  necessary. 

The  girl  was  of  an  exquisite  vulgarity — a  slim,  rounded 
bit  of  femininity  whose  very  bones  seemed  pliant.  Her 
small,  wedge-shaped  face  with  its  blackened  eyes  and  crim 
soned  lips  looked  sickly  under  its  wings  of  cropped  hair, 
dyed  straw-colour. 


10  WORLD'S-END 

Auguste  was  in  ordinary  evening  dress  for  this  first 
dance,  and  the  girl  wore  a  short  slip  of  thin,  very  clinging 
stuff  over  fleshings. 

At  first  they  spun  so  fleetly  and  evenly  over  the  sleek 
floor  that  he  was  reminded  of  the  motion  of  "sleeping" 
tops — then  the  dance  grew  more  measured,  more  accented, 
and  gradually  passed  into  the  most  intricate  maze  of  sen 
sual  patterns,  with  those  two  human  bodies  weaving  the 
web  of  desire  as  on  an  invisible  loom.  .  .  . 

Randolph  withdrew  his  look  from  them  and  bent  it  on 
the  spectators.  In  moments  of  climax  the 'audience  often 
interested  him  more  than  tire  drama,  and  this  interest  was 
keener  than  usual  at  the  present  moment. 

"With  what  expression  would  all  these  young  women  and 
girls  of  his  own  world  be  watching  those  gyrating  aliens 
from  another? 

The  faces  were  fixed,  but  mostly  expressionless ;  they  were 
absorbed,  but  he  could  see  no  other  emotion  upon  them 
than  that  of  a  perfectly  frank  and  unrelaxing  curiosity. 
He  glanced  at  a  group  of  men  clustered  in  a  big  doorway. 
With  them  it  was  different.  Mouths  were  parted — eyes 
glistening.  They  too  were  obsessed  by  curiosity,  but  of  an 
other  relish.  Yet  these  were  the  fathers,  brothers  and 
sweethearts  of  the  women  in  the  little  gilded  chairs. 

The  dance  ceased  and  there  was  great  applause. 

"I  must  say,  it's  ...  frank,"  said  Mrs.  Beresford. 

"Yes — you  couldn't  call  it  subtle,  certainly,"  admitted 
Eandolph. 

"Of  course  it's  rather  horrid,  but  it  is  beautiful  in  a 
way." 

"Certainly  it  is,"  he  agreed. 

She  glanced  back  over  her  shoulder  at  the  chairs  behind 
them. 

"It  does  seem  odd  to  have  young  girls  here,  doesn't  it? 
I  suppose  that's  modernity." 

' '  Let 's  call  it  modernity, ' '  said  Eandolph. 

"It  displeases  you,  doesn't  it?" 

"Why  should  it  displease  me?  I  haven't  a  daughter 
here,  and  Sally  is  of  mature  age.  You  can't  be  thinking 
that  my  own  morals  are  in  danger?" 

"Well  ..."  said  Mrs.  Beresford  ruminatingly — "I  be 
lieve  I  feel  just  as  you  do." 

"Please  ...  how  do  I  feel?" 

"You  don't  like  all  these  young  girls  looking  on." 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  11 

"It  seems  an  odd  situation  to  me,  I  confess.  But  I've 
watched  them  carefully,  and,  do  you  know,  I  don't  think 
it  affects  them  one  way  or  the  other?" 

"No  .  .  ."  she  said,  gazing  about  her  again.  "I  don't 
think  it  does.  Why  do  you  suppose  that  is?" 

''Ah  ..."  said  Randolph,  and  he  gave  a  whimsical  imi 
tation  of  an  elaborate  Gallic  shrug. 

As  another  man  came  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Beresford  at  this 
moment  he  made  over  his  chair  to  him  and,  turning  away, 
found  himself  beside  a  portrait  painter  named  Buxton 
whom  he  rather  liked. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  asked  Buxton  when  they 
had  shaken  hands.  ''Rather  steep  for  a  drawing-room  fad 
—hey?" 

''It's  amazmg, "  said  Randolph. 

"Which?  The  dance  or  the  audience?"  asked  the  other, 
grinning. 

"The  combination.  It's  perfectly  incredible.  What  do 
you  make  of  it?" 

"Give  it  up,"  said  Buxton.  "But  what  do  they  make 
of  it?  ...  That's  the  interesting  question.  They  aren't 
blind  .  .  .  they  aren  't  fools  .  .  .  they  aren  't  sucklings  .  .  . 
they  aren 't  sexless.  Yet  they  stare  at  *hat  unspeakable  per 
formance  like  hair-dressers'  busts  at  the  crowd." 

Richard  here  approached  and,  addressing  his  uncle  with 
an  annoyed  air,  said  that  he  was  sorry  to  have  led  him  to 
expect  so  much  from  Auguste's  dancing — that  already 
America  had  injured  Auguste  as  an  artist — that  his  danc 
ing  had  become  lukewarm  and  banal  and  had  lost  its  mar 
vellous  violence  and  savage  elan. 

"You'll  doubtless  regard  me  as  old-fashioned,  Richard, 
— un  bourgeois  en-  dclirc, — when  I  tell  you  that  I  consider 
him  sufficiently  indecent  since  he  dances  before  young 
girls.  But  look  at  them!  As  calm  as  though  they  had 
been  a-Maying!" 

Richard  gazed  at  the  untroubled  maidens  from  under 
his  straight,  black  brows,  so  like  his  mother's.  Then  he 
looked  again  at  his  uncle. 

"Have  you  guessed  their  secret?"  asked  he. 

"No,"  said  Randolph,  frowning  a  little. 

' '  Then  I  will  tell  you,  Uncle  Owen — for  I  know  what  is 
at  the  core  of  their  hearts.  They  adored  it — for  all  women 
adore  brutality.  But  they've  been  brought  up  to  conceal 
things,  and  so  they're  concealing  it;  just  as  a  woman  might 


12  WORLD'S-END 

draw  on  a  white  glove  to  hide  the  bruise  of  a  lover's  vio 
lent  kiss  on  her  arm." 

Randolph  looked  at  him  bleakly.  He  would  very  much 
have  enjoyed  giving  Richard  a  sound  cuff.  Sally's  bitter 
speech — "lie  has  never  been  really  congenial  to  you, "- 
shot  into  his  mind,  and  he  recalled  how  from  boyhood 
certain  traits  in  Richard  had  always  jarred  upon  him,  re 
membering  at  the  same  time  that  whenever  lie  had  over 
come  the  first  instinctive  recoil  from  a  personality  his  after- 
experience  had  proved  his  intuition  to  be  right.  How 
differently  he  had  looked  on  life  when  he  was  Richard's 
age! — Women  had  seemed  to  him  like  mysterious  flowers, 
at  whose  touch  all  the  portals  of  beatitude  would  fly  open. 
The  thought  of  violence  in  connection  with  a  woman  would 
have  seemed  to  him  a  stupid  profanity  then  as  now. 

And  in  a  sudden  flash — he  saw  the  scene  empty  of  him 
self  and  Richard  reigning  at  World 's-End — Richard  with 
his  decadent,  Montmartre-ish  ideas,  ruling  over  the  negroes 
and  white  country  folk  whose  problems  he  had  spent  so 
many  years  trying  to  solve  in  a  sane,  human,  fellow-kindly 
fashion.  After  all, — if  he  had  a  son The  old,  ineradi 
cable  human  instinct  startled  him  with  the  suddenness  of 
its  attack.  Yes — there  was  no  shirking  it — he  would  have 
preferred  to  imagine  his  own  son  at  "World 's-End"  rather 
than  the  son  of  his  sister.  Or,  no, — he  corrected  himself, 
— rather  than  the  individual  being,  Richard  Bryce. 

Richard,  in  the  meantime,  perceiving  quite  clearly  that 
his  uncle's  attitude  was  antagonistic  to  his  interpretation 
of  the  reason  for  the  virginal  serenity  of  the  young  girls 
in  face  of  Auguste's  dancing,  thought  what  a  pity  it  was 
that  a  really  able  man  like  Uncle  OVen  should  cherish 
those  antiquated  ideas  of  chivalry  which  left  so  many 
American  women  moping  on  pedestals  and  so  many  Ameri 
can  men  moiling  below  them.  In  his  darksome  young  creed 
the  maidens  went  very  willingly  to  the  Minotaur  and  the 
Sabine  women  had  only  shrieked  from  savoir  faire. 

"Ah  .  .  .  Auguste  is  going  to  give  us  the  'Apache'  at 
last,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  and  he  and  Randolph  worked 
their  way  along  the  edge  of  the  throng  in  order  to  be  a 
little  nearer  to  the  dancers. 

Auguste,  in  rough  dress,  with  a  vulgar  little  cap  shading 
his  rapacious,  questing  eyes  and  a  brutal  red  neckerchief 
about  his  throat,  had  taken  on  the  dignity  that  always 
lurks  in  latent  ferocity.  His  mate,  in  her  black  calico 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  13 

gown  and  shock  of  bleached  hair,  chopped  off  as  for  the 
guillotine  and  falling  over  a  red  neckerchief  like  his  own, 
was  no  longer  the  pert  little  street-decoy  of  the  fleshings 
and  revealing  slip,  but  a  tranced,  piteous  victim  of  sex, 
drawn  to  the  devouring  male  like  a  seabird  to  the  glare  of 
the  pharos  that  means  its  death. 

The  dance  begins.  It  is  a  dance  of  satiety  on  his  part, 
of  not  to  be  rebuffed,  utterly  debased  pleading  on  hers. 
He  is  the  carnivore  whose  lip-bristles  are  stiff  with  blood, 
who  has  eaten  of  sweet  white  meat  till  he  wishes  to  rend 
and  grind  what  he  can  no  longer  swallow.  She  is  the  blood 
that  cries  from  the  ground  where  it  is  spilt  to  be  spilt 
again, — the  degraded  flesh  that  does  not  feel  itself  alive 
until  the  fangs  of  the  devourer  are  in  it. 

To  pulse-beats  of  music,  inane  as  the  gabbling  of  idiots, 
the  two  circle  and  turn,  facing  each  other,  and  ever  she 
shamelessly  and  wofully  solicits,  and  ever  the  glutted  male 
flings  her  off,  as  though  the  very  reek  of  her  anxious  femi 
ninity  roused  in  him  a  fierce  hatred  of  reaction.  Once, 
with  an  orgasm  of  pent  rage,  he  cuffs  her  right  and  left, 
on  her  whitened  jaws,  as  the  tiger  cuffs  his  mate  grown 
too  familiar.  But  now  he  catches  her  to  him,  and  the 
brutal  bound  with  which  he  does  so  is  like  a  roar  of  ex 
asperation.  He  bends  her  backward,  sideward,  as  though 
he  would  break  her  fragile  bones  and  hear  them  grit  to 
gether  in  the  warm  pulp  of  her  flesh — then  flings  her  from 
him  like  a  little  doll  of  rags.  Back  she  goes,  and  back 
and  back,  until  her  cropped  poll  rests  upon  the  boards  and 
her  slight  body  is  an  arch  of  quivering  and  repulsed  de 
sire  from  head  to  heels.  Her  black  skirts  spread  withered 
about  her.  She  is  like  a  dark,  soiled  flower  picked  from 
the  gutter  and  cast  back  again, — a  poor  "fleur  du  mal" 
dashed  back  upon  the  pavement  from  between  the  crevices 
of  which  it  sprang. 

"When  she  trembles  up, — crouches,  fawns,  solicits, — he 
pounces — this  time  he  has  her  by  the  wrists.  Up  she  goes, 
up  and  up.  He  whirls  her  round  his  head  like  a  living 
sling — a  sling  of  flesh  in  which  the  heart  is  the  stone  to  be 
slung  forth.  Round  and  round  he  whirls  her.  What  will 
the  end  be?  Will  he  hurl  her  out  above  the  prettily 
dressed  women  in  the  little  gilded  chairs,  to  fall  among 
them,  crushing  them  with  her  actual  body,  as  the  symbolic 
body  of  her  sisterhood  should  crush  their  placid  self-satis 
faction?  But  no, — he  drops  her  finally  back  within  his  owu 


14  WORLD'S-END 

claws; — spinning  ever  faster  and  faster,  ever  closer  and 
closer  he  holds  her,  until  blended  into  one  shape,  like  a 
madly  whirling,  Aphroditic  toy,  they  dart  from  the  room, 
and  the  "Apache"  dance  is  over. 

The  culmination  of  the  evening  came  for  Eandolph,  how 
ever,  when  the  maidens  on  whose  account  he  had  been  so 
concerned  rose  from  their  places  in  response  to  the  invita 
tion  of  the  young  men,  and  with  smiling  good-will  began 
to  imitate  with  their  partners  the  sinuosities  of  the  modern 
variation  of  the  "valse  chaloupe"  which  Auguste  had  first 
given. 

He  noted  two  Frenchmen  whose  remarks  he  had  over 
heard  earlier  in  the  evening  watching  the  dancers  and  bus 
ily  engaged  in  a  rapid  exchange  of  undertones,  and  he  pur 
posely  avoided  passing  near  them,  not  caring  to  hear  what 
they  might  have  to  say  just  then  about  the  customs  of  his 
country. 

As  he  neared  the  door,  for  he  had  decided  not  to  wait 
for  Richard  and  Sally,  a  mother  accosted  her  daughter  in 
quite  audible  tones. 

"Maudie  dear,  I  wouldn't  dance  any  more  with  Teddy 
Bering  if  I  were  you.  He's  had  entirely  too  much  cham 
pagne.  And  mind  you  avoid  young  Miller.  He's  a  nice 
boy,  but  you  know  he's  always  tight  about  this  time  in 
the  evening." 

Randolph  handed  his  ticket  to  the  condescending  foot 
man,  and,  recovering  his  great-coat,  stepped  out  into  the 
thin,  stinging  air  in  a  mood  of  mingled  relief,  wonderment, 
annoyance,  and  melancholy. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  Richard  was  at  work 
in  his  studio.  As  his  long,  nervous,  too  finely  chiselled 
hands  indicated,  he  was  an  ardent  lover  of  detail  for  its 
own  sake.  Form  as  expressed  by  line  was  what  most  ap 
pealed  to  him,  and  he  had  exotic  ideas  about  colour,  which 
he  said  should  be  mentally  suggested  rather  than  presented 
to  the  eye  in  crude  masses. 

Jewels  he  called  the  bourgeoiseries  of  nature,  and  con 
sidered  alabaster  and  black  marble  the  only  precious  stones. 

In  accordance  with  this  theory,  his  studio  was  entirely 
in  black  and  white. 

His  gift  as  a  draughtsman  was  undoubtedly  rare.  The 
fluent,  vibrant  beauty  of  his  line  swept  out  along  the  white 
surface  like  black  gossamer  on  the  wind  of  imagination. 


W  O  R  L  D    S  -  E  N  D  15 

But  he  also  considered  himself  a  poet,  a  painter  and  a 
sculptor. 

"When  an  admiring  lady  had  once  asked  him  to  what 
school  of  philosophy  he  belonged,  he  had  replied  that  he 
was  "an  ideopraxist. "  The  lady  had  looked  up  the  word 
in  the  dictionary  as  soon  as  she  got  home  and  found  that 
it  meant  "one  who  is  impelled  to  act  by  the  force  of  an 
idea;  who  devotes  his  energies  to  the  carrying  out  of  an 
idea."  She  discovered  later  that  this  idea  by  whose  force 
Richard  was  impelled,  and  to  the  carrying  out  of  which 
his  energies  were  devoted,  was  the  idea  of  the  revelation 
of  the  natural  bent  of  a  man  as  disclosed  by  his  art,  re 
gardless  of  all  accepted  standards  of  morality  and  beauty, 
and  of  all  promptings  of  the  so-called  higher  self  (I  quote 
Richard)  which  was  merely  the  grafting  by  civilisation  of 
a  banal  and  morbid  sensibility  upon  the  primal  and  vig 
orously  a-moral  senses  of  the  natural  man. 

As  often  happens,  Richard  was  of  a  colder  nature  than 
his  theories.  He  experimented  with  his  senses  rather  than 
they  with  him  as  in  the  case  of  the  average  youth  of  six- 
and-twenty,  and  had  he  taken  a  bride  he  would  surely  have 
ground  her  into  paint. 

He  was  working  at  present  on  a  volume  of  his  own  poems 
which  he  was  illustrating,  and  it  was  to  hear  his  latest 
poem,  which  he  called  "The  Daughter  of  Ypocras, "  that 
some  people  were  coming  that  day — Sylvia  Beresford,  the 
lovely  Mrs.  Fierce-Hull,  and  his  mother,  who  had  asked  to 
bring  Mary  Talliaferro. 

Richard  frowned  now  as  he  recalled  Mary's  light  grey, 
Irish  eyes  with  the  short  black  lashes  and  little  dance  in 
them — for,  whether  she  spoke  or  was  silent,  Mary  always 
seemed  to  be  making  light  of  his  most  cherished  ideas. 

When  Randolph  arrived  at  the  studio  he  found  there 
Sylvia  Beresford,  Mrs.  Fierce-Hull,  and  two  artists,  a  Mr. 
Hines  and  a  Mr.  Prosser. 

Mrs.  Fierce-Hull,  of  whom  Richard  had  spoken  as  being 
uniquely  exquisite,  was  a  tall,  incredibly  thin  woman  with 
a  white,  mask-like  face  and  a  Pierrot  mouth  painted  violet- 
red.  From  mists  of  greenish  ashen  hair  her  gold  green 
eyes  gazed  out  with  the  still  detachment  of  a  cat's. 

Randolph  learned  from  this  lady  that  Mr.  Hines  was  a 
disciple  of  Matisse  but  that  Mr.  Prosser  was  a  law  unto 
himself  and  had  just  finished  a  most  amazing  decoration 
of  zebras  for  Mrs.  Fierce-Hull's  dining-room. 


16  WORLD'S-END 

"It's  simply  marvellous,"  she  said,  "to  see  what  Mr. 
Prosser  has  done  with  zebras  after  George  Moore's  saying 
that  zebras  and  Swiss  chalets  cannot  be  used  in  art.  You 
should  see  them  for  yourself,  Mr.  Randolph — one  can't  de 
scribe  them." 

Just  here  Sally  came  in  with  Mary  Talliaferro  and,  be 
fore  reading  his  poem,  Richard  was  persuaded  to  show 
them  his  last  piece  of  sculpture,  a  bas-relief  in  alabaster 
set  upon  black  marble  and  entitled  "AVoman. "  The  black 
marble,  showing  dully  through  the  semi-diaphanous  ala 
baster,  symbolised,  in  Richard's  view,  "the  darkness  of 
masculinity  lowering  through  the  lighter  substance  of 
femininity."  To  Randolph  it  seemed  disagreeably  remin 
iscent  of  certain  cheap  effects  in  cameos.  The  face  itself, 
contorted  and  perverse,  certainly  did  not  represent  his  idea 
of  "Woman."  He  awaited  with  curiosity  the  verdict  of 
the  others. 

There  was  silence  for  some  moments  after  Richard  had 
withdrawn  the  scarf  of  black  gauze  with  which  the  bas- 
relief  was  veiled.  Then  Mrs.  Pierce-Hull  drew  a  long 
breath  and  said : 

"You  have  disclosed  the  secrets  that  women  have  been 
keeping  these  thousands  of  years." 

Sylvia  said:  "It's  amazing  ...  it's  ...  it's  terri- 
fyingly  true." 

The  disciple  of  Matisse  said  in  his  deep,  rough  voice: 
"fa  y  est,  et  en  plcin,"  and  Prosser  exclaimed:  "My 
dear  Bryce,  what  a  bi-sexual  brain  you  must  have  to  do  a 
bit  of  revelation  like  that." 

Mary  and  Sally  were  discreetly  quiet.  Randolph 
confessed  frankly  that  he  did  not  "understand."  The 
two  artists  and  Mrs.  Pierce-Hull  spent  the  next  twenty 
minutes  in  trying  to  enlighten  him.  Finally  Richard 
broke  forth  into  a  monologue  on  the  hidden  ways  of 
art. 

Randolph  was  diverted  and  annoyed  at  the  same  time 
by  the  caracolings  of  Richard's  high-horse,  and  wondered 
whether  he  would  ever  dismount  and  pursue  the  one  real 
gift  that  he  had  on  the  sober  feet  of  common  sense.  But 
no,  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  choose  to  reign  as  Prince  of 
Smatterers  over  a  court  that  gazed  enchanted  through  the 
magnifying  glass  of  many-coloured  words  which  he  held 
before  his  artistic  personality, — for  now  he  was  telling  them 
that  the  only  real  tonic-scale  was  that  of  the  Chinese,  and 


WORLD'S-END  17 

of  how  he  was  engaged  in  writing  a  one-act  opera  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  Chinese  laws  of  music. 

At  last,  standing  beside  the  lectern  of  ebony  and  ivory, 
on  which  lay  his  book  of  poems,  he  began  to  expound  it 
to  them. 

The  daughter  of  Ypocras  was,  he  told  them,  a  lovely  girl 
who  had  been  changed  into  a  dragon  and  doomed  to  re 
tain  this  fearful  shape  until  some  lover,  knowing  of  her 
plight,  should  be  bold  enough  to  kiss  her  on  the  mouth. 
In  his  poem  the  lover  comes  and,  being  often  mirrored  in 
the  beautiful  eyes  which  are  all  that  remain  to  her  of  her 
woman's  form,  is  drawn  gradually  into  doting  on  the 
rare  sinuosities  of  her  dragon-shape,  and  the  play  of  light 
along  her  scales  of  gold  and  violet.  So  that,  when  at  last 
his  kiss  transforms  her  again  to  woman,  his  artist-heart 
breaks  at  the  loss  of  his  exquisite  dragon,  and  he  sinks 
dying  at  the  feet  of  the  sweetly  normal  maiden  who  has 
taken  her  place. 

In  this  poem,  he  explained,  he  had  endeavoured  to  reveal 
some  of  the  dark  yet  radiant  magic  that  lurks  in  the 
mysterious  perversities  of  femininity,  as  opposed  to  the 
commonplace  attraction  of  what  he  might  call  the  daylight 
charm  of  the  uncomplex  woman. 

When  he  began  to  read,  the  still,  feline  eyes  of  Mrs. 
Fierce-Hull  never  left  his  face,  her  pupils  seeming  to  ex 
pand  and  contract  with  the  cadence  of  the  verse,  like  those 
of  a  cat  following  the  uneven  flight  of  a  young  bird.  Syl 
via's  face  was  rigid  with  attention,  Sally's  anxious.  Only 
in  Mary's  light  grey  eyes  the  little  dance  seemed  going  to 
a  merry  tune  of  the  mind.  Randolph  continued  to  watch 
Mary  with  great  pleasure.  Hers  was  certainly  the  charm 
of  daylight,  and  he  thought  how  crisp  and  awakening  was 
the  contrast  of  her  vivid,  humourful  face  to  the  almost 
drugged-looking  hothouse  beauty  of  Mrs.  Fierce-Hull.  Yes, 
in  this  atelier  of  Richard's  with  its  rapt  devotees,  Mary 
W£,>  like  a  fine  rousing  major-chord  struck  full  across  the 
dreamy  minor  meanderings  of  a  chanson  by  De  Bussy.  He 
would  get  her  to  come  and  have  tea  with  him  somewhere 
after  it  was  over,  and  they  could  talk  together,  in  happy 
and  undisturbed  philistinism,  of  "World 's-End  and  some 
of  the  daylight  things  that  Richard  scorned.  One  was 
always  happy  with  Mary.  That  warm  heart  of  hers,  saved 
from  sentimentalism  by  her  keen  sense  of  fun,  flowed  out 
so  to  the  interests  of  others  as  to  make  them  seem  doubly 


18  WORLD'S -END 

interesting  to  the  others  themselves.  And  suddenly  Ran- 
dolph  wondered  why  it  was  that  he  had  never  fallen  in 
love  with  Mary, — she  was  so  pre-eminently  lovable  and  so 
charming  to  look  at  with  her  light-grey  happy  eyes,  her 
too-short  upper  lip  that  always  let  through  a  gleam  of 
her  pretty  teeth,  her  dark  hair  curling  free  from  the  heavi 
est  pins,  and  the  soft  red  in  her  olive  cheeks.  She  was 
the  right  age  for  him,  too,  just  thirty-six,  and  liked  the 
things  that  he  liked  and  loved  World 's-End  almost  as  much 
as  he  did — a  strong  bond.  But  in  all  the  years  that  he 
had  known  her  it  had  never  once  crossed  his  mind  to  "fall 
in  love"  with  her — though  there  was  no  one  for  whom  he 
had  a  stronger  affection.  And  now,  all  at  once,  like  that, 
he  found  it  strange  that  he  had  never  done  so, — and  wan 
dered  why  it  was  exactly,  and  whether  she  could  ever  have 
loved  him  if  he  had  cared  in  that  way. 

Just  here  Mary  looked  at  him  as  though  she  had  felt  the 
touch  of  his  thoughts,  and  the  little  dance  in  her  eyes  quick- 
ened  until  it  became  like  the  dance  of  light  on  water,  and 
she  made  the  slightest  motion  with  her  lips  which  told 
him  better  than  words  could  have  done  exactly  what  she 
thought  of  the  Daughter  of  Ypocras,  and  Richard's 
sarcophagus-like  studio  and  Mrs.  Fierce-Hull,  and  the 
painter  of  zebras,  and  everything.  Yes,  he  and  Mary  were 
so  much  in  sympathy  that  they  could  often  communicate  in 
this  manner  without  words, — and  it  seemed  stranger  than 
ever  to  him  that  he  had  never  "fallen  in  love"  with  her. 

It  was  stranger  even  than  he  thought,  for  in  these  things 
there  is  often  an  unadmitted  hypnotic  force  which  emanates 
from  the  apparently  passive,  and  Mary  had  loved  him  all 
her  life. 


Ill 

HPAXI  or  hansom?"  asked  Randolph  when  at  last  he  and 
*•  Mary  were  in  the  street  together. 

"Oh,  a  hansom  by  all  means,"  said  Mary.  "I  can  never 
get  too  near  to  a  horse,  as  you  know,  and  besides  they're 
so  nice  and  old-time-y  and  don't  smell  of  gasolene — only 
please  pick  out  a  good  horse." 

They  let  three  "Pirates"  who  were  "cruising"  the  Ave 
nue  rather  mournfully  go  by,  and  then  Randolph  lifted 
his  stick  at  a  cab  drawn  by  a  cocky  little  bay. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  19 

"I  wish  I  had  some  sugar."  sighed  Mary  as  she  got  in. 
and  the  horse  turned  his  head  to  investigate.  i;I  know  that 
little  horse  was  somebody's  pet  once.  His  legs  have  been 
fired.  They  sold  him  for  that.  I  reckon." 

Randolph  was  delighted  to  have  Alary  all  to  himself. 
Her  Virginian  accent,  not  too  marked,  was  the  pleasantest 
sound  he  had  heard  for  a  lone  time,  and  she  was  so  per 
fectly  natural  and  "daylight."  He  thanked  Richard 
mentally  for  that  expression.  It  might  have  been  invented 
iV."  Mary. 

To   her  he  said: 

"You  are  certainly  the  most  endearing  person.  Mary. 
Shall  I  stop  somewhere  and  get  you  some  sugar?" 

But  Mary  laughed  and  said  no.  that  she  wanted  her  tea 
so  dreadfully  it  made  her  selrlsh. 

""Where  are  we  going  for  our  tea?"  she  asked  him. 
"X'ot  to  an  ultra  smart  place,  please.  I'm  so  tired  of  Ritz- 
Ca-rltons  and  Empire  frocks." 

"Well:"  said  Randolph,  when  in  a  quiet  place  she  had 
been  served  with  tea  and  a  toasted  rnunin. 

"Ah."  she  replied,  twinkling  at  him  through  her  short 
lashes  which  always  seemed  rumpled  somehow,  and  which 
gave  such  charm  to  her  light  eyes.  "I  s^e  that  you  want 
me  to  unburden  myself  on  the  subject  of  Richard/' 

"You've  seen  a  good  deal  of  him  this  time?"' 

"X — no.  I'm  not  up  to  Richard's  standard  .  .  .  but 
enough " 

"You  don't  think  Europe  has  improved  him  1 " 

"Richard."  s-aid  Mary  thoughtfully,  "is  like  integral 
calculus  to  me — a  mere  name.  Or.  perhaps.  I  should  say 
like  the  Fourth  Dimension,  only  I  believe  you  can  see 
through  all  sides  of  a  thing  at  once  ha  the  Fourth  Dimen 
sion,  and  you  can't  see  through  even  one  side  of  Richard.''' 

Something  in  her  tone,  whimsical  though  it  was.  made 
Randolph  ask. 

"You  don't  think  there's  any  real  evil  in  the  bov.  do  you. 
Mary  ? ' ' 

If  he  had  hoped  for  a  quick  denial  he  was  disappointed, 
for  Mary  considered  this  and  then  s-aid : 

"Xot  in  the  way  you  mean. — but  it's  not  good  for  man 
to  be  alone — 'that's  in  the  Bible.'  as  Aunt  Lucy  used  to 
s-ay — and  Richard  dwells  alone  in  a  splendid  emptiness  of 
which  he  is  the  centre.  In  plain  language.  I  don't  think 
anvbodv  in  the  whole  world  is  real  to  Richard  but  himself 


20  WORLD'S-END 

.  .  .  You,  I,  his  mother,  everybody, "  she  waved  a  bit  of 
muffin  in  a  circle  before  putting  it  into  her  mouth,  "... 
we're  just  parts  of  his  dream.  He'd  grind  anybody 's  bones 
to  make  him  not  bread,  but  cake.  You  know  I  never  was 
crazy  about  Richard,"  she  ended  apologetically.  Eandolph 
smiled,  a  little  wryly. 

"No,  I  know  you  never  were,  that's  just  why  I  value 
your  opinion  so  much.  You're  sure  to  be  just  to  the  people 
you  don't  like." 

"That's  a  great  compliment,  Owen." 

"I  meant  it  for  one,  Mary." 

He  looked  so  sober  and  disturbed  that  Mary  rummaged 
her  mind  hurriedly  for  something  soothing. 

"Perhaps  he'll  outgrow  all  this  .  .  .  this  ..."  she  hes 
itated  for  a  word,  ' '  all  this  demi-deuil  art, ' '  she  continued, 
twinkling  in  spite  of  herself,  "and  Mrs.  Fierce-Hulls  and 
things." 

"What  do  you  make  of  that  lady?" 

"Why,"  said  Mary,  "at  first  sight  she  seems  to  belong 
to  the  class  that  uses  three-cent  stamps  instead  of  two  to 
match  its  violet  letter-paper,  but  I  've  met  her  once  or  twice 
before  and  I  think  her  mind  is  really  ruled  stationery  with 
a  bunch  of  flowers  in  the  corner.  Perfectly  proper,  you 
know,  if  a  little  ornate.  'Striking  but  chaste,'  as  the  sta 
tioners  tell  you." 

Randolph  smiled  again,  but  said, 

"I'm  rather  worried,  Mary." 

"Yes,"  she  answered  simply,  "I  understand." 

She  knew  that  he  was  thinking  of  World 's-End,  and  its 
future  administration,  and  of  all  those  other  vital  in 
terests  which  would  be  left  in  Richard's  hands  if  Owen 
passed  on  his  property  to  him.  They  both  sat  silent  for 
some  minutes  and  Mary  thought  of  the  painful  day  seven 
years  ago  when  Sally  had  been  informed  by  Owen  himself 
of  the  new  disposals  that  he  had  been  making  of  some  of 
his  property,  and  of  how  Sally,  in  her  maternal  greed,  had 
told  Mary  that  she  believed  Owen  was  becoming  mentally 
unbalanced.  She  had  even  talked  wildly  of  a  "commis 
sion  of  lunacy"  to  enforce  trusteeship — for,  by  the  new 
investments  that  he  had  made,  Randolph  had  much  re 
duced  his  income. 

Mary  recalled  Sally  as  she  had  looked  that  day, — frus 
trated  in  her  desire  to  grasp  all  that  could  be  grasped  for 
her  offspring,  and  how  in  that  hour  she,  Mary,  had  de- 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  21 

cided  that  maternal  love  can  be  spiritual  or  animal,  just 
as  any  other  love  can,  and  that  only  when  it  is  more  spirit 
ual  than  animal  is  it  beautiful.  In  Sally  that  day  she 
had  seen  the  tigress  that  would  gladly  rend  a  Buddha  to 
give  meat  to  its  cub. 

And  she  also  recalled  the  sudden  up-rush  of  adoration 
that  had  mingled  with  her  love  for  Owen  when  she  gath 
ered  out  of  Sally's  incoherencies  the  true  facts  of  his  of 
fence — selling  a  good  portion  of  his  gilt-edged  bonds  and 
securities  in  the  great  bodies  that  gorge  on  profit,  he  had 
bought  outright  cotton-mills  and  factories  of  different  kinds 
in  Virginia  and  other  states,  and  these  he  proposed  to 
run  on  a  system  which  would  share  all  profits  equally  with 
the  workers,  exclude  child-labour,  and  reduce  the  work 
ing-hours  to  eight.  There  were  other  socialistic  enormities 
which  Mary  could  not  exactly  recall. 

"AYhat  are  you  smiling  at,   Mary?"  Owen  asked  her. 

"Oh,  just  at  a  trifle  that  came  back  to  me — one  of 
Sally's  ways — nothing  worth  telling." 

"I  wish  I  had  your  happy  nature,"  he  said,  with  real 
wistfulness.  ' '  If  you  saw  a  bit  of  thistle-down  floating  by 
I  believe  you'd  smile  at  it.  The  least  thing  makes  you 
happy." 

"I  made  a  prayer  once,  years  ago,  when  I  was  just  a 
child,"  said  Mary.  "I  remember  I  was  up  in  the  hay 
loft  and  I  felt  so  joyous  just  watching  old  'Dick' — the  old 
carriage  horse  that  they  used  to  let  me  ride  sometimes, 
you  know — just  watching  him  prick  his  ears  and  twitch 
his  hide  as  I  dropped  grains  of  corn  on  him  through  a 
chink — dear  me !  What  a  long  sentence !  But  I  was  so 
happy,  and  it  was  such  a  little  thing  to  make  me  happy 
that  I  had  a  sudden  inspiration  and  I  said,  'Oh,  Lord, 
please  increase  my  happiness  in  little  things,' — and  it  was 
answered,"  she  ended,  laughing. 

"It  was  a  lovely  prayer,"  said  Randolph  warmly,  "and 
remarkable  for  a  child  to  make.  But,"  he  sighed,  "I  can 
take  pleasure  too  in  little  things, — a  ride  on  'The  Clown' 
— the  scent  of  the  earth  after  rain  ...  it's  the  big  things 
that  weigh  so  heavily If  I  had  married,  perhaps ..." 

"Yes,  perhaps,"  said  Mary. 

' '  But  to  marry  without  being  wholly  in  love  ..." 

"No  .  .  .  it  would  be  dreadful  to  marry  without  being 
wholly  in  love,"  said  Mary. 

He  came  back  to  the  idea  which,  was  haunting  him. 


22  WORLD'S-END 

' '  Now,  about  Richard, ' '  he  began,  ' '  do  you  know,  I  have 
a  very  queasy  conscience  sometimes  about  the  part  I've 
played  in  Richard's  life." 

' '  Why  you  've  played  a  splendid  part  towards  him ! "  ex 
claimed  Mary,  rounding  her  clear  eyes  at  him  partly  in 
surprise,  partly  in  vexation.  "You've  been  a  great  deal 
more  to  him  than  most  fathers  are  to  their  sons,  ever  since 
Mr.  Bryce  died." 

Her  tone  said,  "I  don't  like  niy  friends  abused  to  nie 
even  when  they  do  it  themselves." 

"What  a  staunch  little  partisan  you  are,  Mary!"  said 
Randolph,  and  he  touched  her  hand  affectionately  as  it  lay 
before  her  on  the  table.  "But  most  fathers  don't  repre 
sent  the  ideal  to  me,  and  I'm  afraid  I've  .  .  .  well  .  .  . 
shirked  things  a  bit  with  Richard. ' ' 

"What,  for  instance?"  demanded  Mary,  still  unsympa 
thetic. 

"I  ought  to  have  kept  him  more  with  me  .  .  .  got  at 
him  more,  as  you  might  say. ' ' 

"Not  I,"  denied  Mary  vigorously.  "I'd  like  to  see  any. 
one  'get  at'  Richard  through  all  that  paraphernalia  01 
affectation." 

' '  But  when  he  was  younger.  ..." 

"He  was  affected  in  his  cradle, — I'm  sure  of  it,"  said. 
Mary  firmly.  "I'm  sure  if  he  could  have  spoken  ho 
would  have  declared  that  he  preferred  an  ink-bottle  to  hia 
milk-bottle, — or  a  mixture,  perhaps,  because  it  would  have 
been  more  subtle. ' ' 

"I  think  you're  too  hard  on  him,  dear." 

This  "dear"  and  the  trouble  in  his  eyes  quite  melted 
Mary,  who  was  meltable  at  the  best  of  times.  "Well, 
granted  that  I  am,"  she  said,  "that  doesn't  make  it  more 
reasonable  for  you  to  be  too  hard  on  yourself.  And  as 
for  Richard,"  she  broke  off  and  the  dance  in  her  eyes  be 
gan  again,  "I  think  my  special  prejudice  dates  from  the 
day  (he  was  eighteen)  when  I  was  sewing  in  the  alcove 
window  of  Sally's  room,  and  he  came  in  (he  didn't  see 
me,  of  course)  and  powdered  his  nose  before  going  to  ride 
with  a  girl.  You  can't  imagine  what  a  horrid  sight  it  is  to 
see  a  young  man  powder  his  nose ! ' ' 

Randolph  joined  in  her  bubble  of  laughter  over  this,  but 
ended  by  saying: 

"I'm.  not  going  to  let  you  wheedle  me  from  my  point, 
Mary.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  'm  partly  responsible  for  that 
powdering  of  his  nose. ' ' 


WORLD'S-END  23 

"Now,"  returned  Mary,  "that  is  sheer  nonsense.  His 
father  and  mother  had  the  bringing  up  of  him  until  he  was 
seventeen,  and  everyone  knows  that  it's  in  his  childhood 
a  hoy  gets  his  strongest  bent!" 

"There  are  a  great  many  things  that  may  be  un-bent 
between  seventeen  and  twenty-six,  Mary." 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  used  the  word  'bent'  about  Rich 
ard,  "'said  Mary  sharply,  "I  should  have  said  creased. 
He's  made  of  too  flimsy  a  material  to  bend." 

"Xow  .  .  .  now  .  .  .  ,"  protested  Randolph. 

"You've  done  everything  for  him — everything,"  per 
sisted  Mary.  "Travelled  with  him,  read  with  him,  given 
him  everything  ..."  she  broke  off  and  said,  on  another 
key,  ' '  there,  perhaps  you  might  have  done  better  by  him, — 
I  mean  given  him  less." 

"It's  a  hard  question  ..."  said  Randolph,  rather 
sadly.  "One  doesn't  know  exactly  where  to  begin  or  where 
to  leave  off  in  these  questions.  You're  afraid  of  inter 
fering  with  individuality  and  then  you  find  there's  a  twist 
you  might  have  straightened." 

"Richard  is  all  twist,"  said  Mary.  "He's  a  human 
arabesque!" 

And  Randolph,  smiling,  said  again,  "now  .  .  .  now, 
Mary." 

"Well — what  is  this  particular  twist  that  you  might 
have  straightened?"  asked  she  grudgingly. 

"Exercise,"  he  answered.  "The  boy  doesn't  take  any. 
Boxing,  fencing,  swimming — I  wanted  to  teach  him  fencing, 
and  the  artistic  side  appealed  to  him  at  first, — but  he 
soon  got  bored  with  it.  I  ought  to  have  insisted,  I'm 
afraid." 

"What  good  would  that  have  done?"  asked  practical 
Mary.  "He  would  have  dropped  it  as  soon  as  he  got  away; 
from  you.  He  was  always  a  physically  indolent  boy.  That^s 
why  he's  so  lanky  now.  I'm  sure  he  thinks  that  lankiness 
is  beautiful." 

And  she  looked  at  the  vigorous,  well-knit  figure  be 
fore  her  with  its  splendid  elasticity,  so  noticeable  even 
in  repose,  and  contrasted  it  in  her  mind  with  the  flat 
drawing  of  Richard's  long,  not  ungraceful,  but  pithless 
form. 

"I  don't  see  how  he  could  grow  up  near  you  and  not 
want  to  be  every  inch  a  man  if  only  in  his  body, ' '  she  said, 
"but  he  probably  thinks  it  dreadfully  bourgeois  to  be  six 


24  WOKLD'S-END 

feet  two  and  able  to  lift  a  hundred  and  seventy  pounds  in 
one  hand." 

"So  you  even  remember  the  number  of  pounds," 
laughed  Randolph.  ' '  You  are  an  insidious  flatterer,  Mary, 
dear." 

' '  Of  course  I  remember  the  number  of  pounds — and  the 
number  of  feet  and  inches  you've  jumped.  And  exactly 
how  many  miles  you've  swum  in  contests  and  .  .  .  and 
all  of  it.  "What's  the  use  of  being  the  proud  friend  of 
a  real  athlete  if  you  don't  remember  the  terms  of  his 
prowess  ? ' ' 

"You  are  certainly  the  greatest  dear,  Mary,"  said  he, 
and  at  that  moment  he  decided  that  he  was  incapable  of 
falling  in  love  with  any  woman  since  he  had  not  fallen  in 
love  with  Mary.  "While  she,  looking  at  his  dark>  eager 
face,  in  which  so  much  of  the  boy  still  survived,  felt  that 
it  was  good  to  have  loved  Owen  and  no  other  man,  even  if 
she  had  to  die  a  lonely  old  maid  for  the  privilege,  with 
nothing  but  memories  and  his  friendship  to  the  last  as 
solace. 

"Are  you  coming  to  World 's-End  this  spring  with 
Sally?"  he  asked,  breaking  the  silence  which  had  followed 
his  last  remark,  and  thinking,  as  was  indeed  the  case,  that 
it  would  be  useless  to  look  for  sympathy  from  Mary  in 
his  self-reproachful  misgiving  about  Richard. 

"No — I  can't  be  there  till  the  summer.  But  I've  prom 
ised  Sally  to  come  by  the  first  of  July. ' ' 

"That's  good,"  he  said  heartily,  "for  I  won't  be  able 
to  get  there  myself  until  then.  I'm  running  down  next 
week  to  look  over  things  a  bit,  then  I  must  be  off  on  a 
long  trip  among  the  factories." 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  great  gentleness.  There  was  no 
dance  in  her  eyes  now.  "Don't  wear  yourself  out,  Owen," 
she  said. 

"No  danger.  It  does  me  good — all  of  it.  I  can't  think 
how  I  stood  it  till  twenty-eight,  milling  along  in  a  frowsty 
law-office.  But  the  training's  been  of  use  to  me  in  many 
ways.  Any  commissions  at  "World  's-End  ?" 

"My  love  to  darling  little  Hannah,"  said  Mary.  Han 
nah  was  Owen's  old  coloured  housekeeper  who  had  been 
the  maid  of  his  grandmother  and  his  nurse, — a  character 
with  all  the  best  traits  of  the  white  race,  yet  of  full  negro 
blood.  "In  fact,  give  them  all  my  love  but  especially  to 
dear  Hannah." 


WORLD'S-END  25 

"They're  all  your  devoted  slaves  just  as  much  as  though 
the  war  had  never  been,"  said  Randolph,  looking  at  her 
affectionately. 

''Well  ..."  she  said,  smiling  in  response,  "they  call 
themselves  'your  people,'  don't  they?" 

"I  really  love  my  old  coloured  folk,"  said  he  thought 
fully. 

' '  How  about  the  young  ones  ? ' '  asked  Mary  with  another 
sort  of  smile. 

"They  are  rather  impossible  as  a  rule,"  he  admitted, 
"but  some  of  them  promise  better  things.  Hannah's 
daughter  is  a  nice  girl." 

' '  You  had  her  educated  for  a  trained  nurse,  didn  't  you ! ' ' 

"Yes— in  Boston." 

"And  she  really  isn't  'airified'?" 

"Not  a  bit.  When  she  comes  to  World 's-End  for  her 
holidays  she  helps  about  the  house  in  all  sorts  of  ways  as 
simply  as  possible." 

"That's  Hannah  coming  out  in  her — she  is  really  a 
wonderful  person.  By  the  way  .  .  .  you  asked  me  about 
commissions  for  World 's-End.  I've  just  remembered 
something  I  wish  you  would  do  for  me." 

' '  Of  course — anything. ' ' 

"It's  just  a  little  parcel  of  silk-scraps  that  I  got  my 
dressmaker  to  give  me  for  Mrs.  Ladd, — you  know,  the 
lame  woman  who  lives  at  Nelson's  Gift.  She's  such  a  dear, 
and  so  plucky.  I  was  coming  to  take  it  over  to  her  myself 
when  I  went  to  World 's-End,  but  it  will  be  so  long  for 
her  to  wait,  and  you  could  send  a  man  over  with  it. ' ' 

"I  might  take  it  myself.  I  haven't  been  to  see  old 
Nelson  for  some  time.  I  always  feel  as  though  I  were  in 
terrupting  his  work." 

"He's  still  at  his  book  on  the  Nelsons  and  their  kin, 
I  suppose?" 

"Yes— I  believe  that's  it." 

"Have  you  seen  Phoebe  lately?" 

"No — I  haven't  seen  her  since  she  was  a  little  bit  of  a 
thing." 

"I  haven't  either.  She's  been  with  her  grandmother  in 
Roanoke  for  years,  but  now  I  hear  she's  at  home  with  her 
father  for  good.  She's  a  little  first  cousin  of  mine,  you 
know. ' ' 

"Oh,  we're  all  cousins  in  Virginia — they're  related  to 
us,  too." 


26  WORLD'S-END 

"They  tell  me  she's  grown  into  a  lovely  girl.  I  only 
remember  her  as  a  little  thing  with  the  whitest  skin  and 
the  reddest  mouth  I  ever  saw,  and  passionate  as  a  hum 
ming-bird." 

"I  only  remember  her  hair,"  said  Randolph.  "I  took 
her  up  before  me  on  the  saddle  once  for  a  canter  over  the 
lawn,  and  her  hair  flew  back  into  my  face.  I  remember 
it  because  it  was  all  dappled,  brown  on  gold." 

Mary  laughed. 

"  'Dappled  hair'  ...  what  a  funny  description.  How 
do  you  mean  .  .  .  'dappled'?" 

"Why,  just  that,"  said  Owen.  "It  was  dappled  with  a 
darker  shade  just  as  the  quarters  of  some  sorrel  horses 
are." 

"I'm  afraid  the  poor  child  has  rather  a  dreary  life," 
she  said  presently.  "She  must  be  about  twenty  now.  I 
was  devoted  to  her  mother  when  I  was  a  child.  She  was 
a  lovely  woman.  She  died  when  Phoebe  was  six.  I  hadn't 
seen  her  for  years,  but  I  remember  crying  when  I  heard 
that  Aunt  Mildred  was  dead."  She  paused  a  moment. 
"Do  you  know?  ...  It  would  be  nice  ..."  then  she 
paused  again. 

"What  would  be  nice?"  urged   Randolph. 

"I  was  just  thinking  that  it  would  be  so  lovely  for 
little  Phoebe  if  Sally  would  have  her  at  World 's-End  this 
summer  for  a  week  or  two." 

"Why,  of  course.    I'll  tell  Sally." 

"You'll  have  to  manage  it  a  little." 

"Manage  it?     Why?" 

' '  Sally  is  so  dreadfully  particular  about  the  young  girls 
that  Richard  meets." 

"Capital!  I'll  see  that  he  meets  this  one.  If  she's  so 
pretty  she  may  wipe  out  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Pierce-Hull. 
Richard  might  fall  desperately  and  humanly  in  love  with 
her  and  solve  all  our  problems." 

"He'll  never  fall  desperately  and  humanly  in  love  with 
anyone,"  said  Mary  firmly.  "His  type  is  'La  Morte 
Amoureuse.'  A  Virginia  country-bred  maiden  would  be 
far  too  'daylight'  for  Master  Richard." 

' '  Well,  we  '11  have  her  at  World  's-End  in  any  case,  since 
you  wish  it, ' '  said  Randolph. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mary,  with  warmth.  "You're  al 
ways  so  nice  to  me,  Owen." 

"And  what  are  you  to  me?" 


WORLD'S-END  27 

"Just  Mary,"  she  said  demurely,  and  the  little  dance 
in  her  eyes  hid  something  very  different  from  laughter. 
Then  she  glanced  down  at  her  watch,  and  sprang  up  quite 
horrified,  saying  that  she  would  have  only  twenty  minutes 
to  dress  for  dinner  and  that  her  gown  had  two  tunics  and 
a  sash  with  fifty  hooks. 


IV 

"WEN'S  thoughts  were  full  of  Mary  after  he  had  taken 
her  to  Sally's  flat,  and,  as  he  walked  along  the  bitter 
streets  under  the  sagging  snow-filled  sky,  he  thought  of 
her  courage  and  her  ever-willing  sweet  unselfishness 
brought  so  triumphantly  out  of  the  drudging  years  that 
she  had  spent  in  the  care  of  a  hysterical,  self-absorbed 
old  aunt,  now  happily  dead,  as  he  reflected  with  satis 
faction.  But  Aunt  Lucy  had  made  what  post-mortem 
amends  she  could  (though  utterly  unrealising  that  she 
had  any  amends  to  make)  by  leaving  Mary  all  her  small 
property.  It  was  truly  small,  the  income  amounting  to 
only  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  but  it  seemed  wonderful  to 
Mary,  who  declared  that  she  could  never  get  used  to  such 
riches  and  the  wonder  of  having  all  her  time  at  her  own 
disposal.  Now  she  could  work  quietly  on  the  charming 
fairy-tales  which  had  always  brought  her  some  fame  and 
a  little  money.  She  had  even  admitted  to  Sally  once 
that  she  really  missed  her  poor  Aunt  Lucy,  for,  after  all, 
it  was  a  good  feeling  to  have  another  so  dependent  upon 
one  for  all  joy  and  comfort. 

"Mary's  an  angel.  She  says  that  she  really  misses  her 
Aunt  Lucy."  Sally  had  passed  it  on  to  Owen,  who  had 
retorted  by  saying  that  Mary's  only  fault  was  a  tendency 
to  sentimentalism  and  that  she  had  better  not  go  about 
quoting  "Now  Lucy's  dead  and  oh!  The  difference  to 
me!"  because  people  who  didn't  know  her  as  they  did 
might  misunderstand  its  true  significance,  and  think  very 
naturally  that  she  alluded  to  the  fifteen  hundred  a  year 
disencumbered  of  Aunt  Lucy's  hysteria.  Sally  had  called 
him  unfeeling  and  said  that  it  would  cut  Mary  to  the 
quick  to  hear  of  his  saying  such  things,  and  Owen  had 
replied  rather  sharply  that  she  never  would  hear  them 
unless  Sally  told  her, — this  remark  producing  a  coolness 
between  brother  and  sister  for  some  days.  He  smiled  now 


28  WORLD'S-END 

at  the  recollection.  Sally's  temper  was  so  uncertain — 
the  least  spark  burnt  a  hole  in  it  as  in  gauze — but  he 
loved  Sally  dearly,  chiefly,  though  he  did  not  realise  it, 
on  account  of  those  mutual  nursery  experiences  which  are 
always  either  a  bond  or  a  severance  in  after  years.  Sally 
had  been  a  regular  little  mother-sister  to  him  in  those 
days.  Now  his  was  the  paternal  part — poor  Sally !  Always 
chafing  so  at  the  loss  of  her  own  money  which  had  slid 
with  Peter's  through  the  steep  chute  of  speculation. 

With  a  start,  Randolph  woke  suddenly  to  his  surround 
ings.  It  was  the  seventh  of  January  in  the  savage  winter 
of  1912,  and  the  cold  bit  like  flame.  His  morning  had 
been  spent  with  others  of  a  like  mind  in  trying  to  make 
some  provision  for  the  poor  against  the  evil  days  of  freezing 
and  starvation  ahead.  It  had  been  like  trying  to  feed 
Behemoth  on  aphides,  and  he  thought  of  the .  first  three 
headlines  in  "The  Times"  that  morning,  printed  side  by 
side  with  no  thought  of  dramatic  contrast.  The  first  ran 
thus:  "Eight  dead  of  cold — City's  poor  suffer."  The  sec 
ond  began:  "$200,000  for  a  painting."  The  third  stated 
that  "$49,675  had  been  paid  for  two  rare  books,  one  of 
which  was  the  famous  Gutenberg  Bible." 

Roused  by  the  fierce  cold,  he  found  himself  staring 
up  at  the  ugly,  brown  church  from  which  a  stone  had 
fallen  that  autumn  and  crushed  a  workingman  as  though 
to  remind  him  that  his  class  were  outsiders  and  must 
not  venture  too  near  sacred  edifices  where  millionaires 
handed  round  the  plate.  He  went  quickly  on,  urged 
both  by  the  cold  and  a  sudden  pang  of  homesickness  for- 
"World 's-End,  as  primal  as  a  pang  of  hunger.  He  longed 
to  be  once  more  where  such  as  he  could  make  happy  were 
happy,  and  to  forget  the  stark  sights  and  sounds  of  the 
freezing,  starving  city,  if  only  for  a  few  weeks,  in  the 
august  spaces  of  the  winter  countryside. 

Three  days  later  he  was  driving  over  the  snowy  roads, 
through  the  iron-hued  woods,  to  World 's-End,  and  New 
York  and  its  problems  lay  far  behind  him,  like  a  sickness 
of  the  spirit  which  has  turned  to  a  new  life. 

The  sky  was  clear  and  grey  as  ice,  star-dusted  and  over 
blown  by  wisps  of  gauzy  cloud.  On  either  side  of  the 
sleigh  the  blurs  of  light  from  its  lamps  ran  up  and  down 
over  weeds  and  banks  and  fences  like  friendly  will-o'-the- 
wisps,  anxious  to  show  the  way.  He  could  see  the  horses' 
breath  jetting  hot  from  their  nostrils,  as  in  old  engravings 


WORLD'S-END  29 

of  the  steeds  of  Phaston.  They  went  ever  up  and  up 
through  rolling  pasture-lands  and  fields,  already  sown  with 
winter  oats  and  wheat,  across  brooks  strangely  silent,  sleep 
ing  under  their  shields  of  ice.  And  always,  there  before 
him,  majestic  and  wistful  at  the  same  time,  soared  the 
lovely  outline  of  the  mountains  that  seemed  part  of  his 
boyhood,  that  took  part  in  his  manhood,  that  he  always 
thought  of  as  sharing  his  old  age  with  something  of  that 
mute  sympathy  in  things  ancient  for  the  eld  of  man. 

Owen  leaned  back  among  the  bear-skin  rugs,  savouring 
this  drive  homeward  through  the  winter  night  as  only 
one  so  intensely  home-loving  and  country-loving  could 
have  done.  David,  the  coachman,  a  dark,  taciturn  negro 
of  forty,  thoroughly  reliable,  as  the  taciturn  so  often  are, 
and  especially  devoted  to  his  master — though  not  in  a  volu 
ble,  picturesque  way — had  told  him  that  all  was  well  at 
World  's-End,  and  that  their  Christmastide  had  been  made 
very  happy  by  the  presents  he  had  sent,  though  they 
"cert'ny  had  missed  him." 

As  he  leaned  there,  borne  swiftly  over  the  snow-soft 
ened  roads  by  the  pair  of  strong  young  bays  that  he  had 
bred  himself,  with  the  pungent,  healthy  odour  of  their 
warm  hides  blown  back  to  him,  with  the  landscape  that  he 
loved  like  a  familiar  face  unfolding  about  him,  and  the 
stern,  yet  friendly  stars  in  their  accustomed  places  above 
the  mountains,  he  experienced  something  of  that  "feeling 
akin  to  ecstasy,"  which  Tolstoi  mentions  in  a  letter  to 
his  wife,  written  upon  reaching  Yasnaya  after  a  period 
spent  in  Moscow.  He  recalled  the  very  words  which  so 
exactly  expressed  his  own  mind:  "  .  .  .  After  all  that — 
Orion  and  Sirius  above  the  Crown  Woods,  the  fluffy,  silent 
snow,  a  good  horse,  good  air,  good  Misha,  and  the  good 
God."  All  speculative  thoughts  left  him.  During  those 
moments  he  was  content  simply  to  Be. 

After  passing  the  old  wrought-iron  gates  of  World  's-End 
they  still  had  a  mile  to  drive  through  the  grounds,  or  what 
Sally  loved  to  call  the  "Park."  Huge  American  walnut 
and  tulip  trees  made  Gothic  groinings  overhead.  The  oxi 
dised  silver  of  poplar  stems  went  by  in  stately  file.  Ameri 
can  lindens.  English  elms,  maples,  ash,  birch,  acacias  and 
beech  lifted  their  delicate  fret-work  against  the  stars, 
for  Randolph's  paternal  grandmother  had  been  a  lover 
of  lordly  trees  and  it  was  to  her  that  World 's-End  owed 
its  present  charm,  both  of  grounds  and  house.  He  thought, 


30  WORLD'S-END 

as  he  had  so  often  thought  before,  of  what  a  wonderful 
old  woman  his  grandmother  had  been.  A  statesman's 
able  wife,  so  good  and  wise  a  mistress  to  her  slaves  that 
they  still  visited  her  grave  in  affectionate  remembrance 
— an  architect  of  real  talent — the  whole  simple,  lovely 
facade  of  World  's-End  was  of  her  designing, — a  shrewd  if 
light  essayist,  a  good  though  not  profound  scholar,  a  reader 
of  men,  last,  but  not  least,  a  perfect  keeper  of  her  own 
household  and  a  sincere  and  practical  Christian. 

He  could  see  her  now,  as  plainly  as  when  he  was  a  lad, 
drifting  lightly  as  a  leaf  down  the  long  halls  of  World 's- 
End  in  her  little  heelless  shoes  with  their  back  ankle-ribbons 
crossed  over  white  thread  stockings,  the  one  damask  rose 
that  she  always  wore  showing  through  the  soft  tulle  folds 
at  her  neck,  and  the  broad  strings  of  her  white  tarlatan  cap 
floating  behind  her. 

.  .  .  They  were  crossing  the  little  Green  Flower  river 
that  curved  so  prettily  through  the  grounds.  When  they 
had  passed  the  low  stone  bridge  they  would  be  at  the  foot 
of  the  south  lawn,  and  he  would  see  the  lighted  windows  of 
the  house.  Yes,  there  they  were — soft  orange  oblongs  be 
tween  the  white  columns  of  the  east  and  west  wings.  And 
above  he  could  see  the  nickering  glow  behind  the  panes 
of  his  bedroom  windows  that  told  of  a  log  fire. 

Up  the  East  Avenue  they  went  at  a  swinging  trot,  the 
horses  freshening  as  they  felt  the  stable  near.  And  Ran 
dolph  too  had  a  pleasant  quickening  at  the  heart  as  he 
neared  home  after  his  long,  drudging  absence. 


ORLD 'S-END  might  have  been  aptly  called  The 
House  of  Columns,  for  next  to  her  love  for  the  boles 
of  great  trees  had  been  his  grandmother's  passion  for  Doric 
columns — and  their  white  stucco  shafts,  a  stately  regiment 
standing  as  though  at  attention  before  the  walls  of  old 
English  brick,  guarded  the  entire  front,  upheld  great  log 
gias  at  the  end  of  either  wing,  and  supported  a  noble 
portico  at  the  back. 

Both  panels  of  the  great  mahogany  door  were  thrown 
wide  and  Owen  saw,  as  he  had  known  that  he  should,  Han 
nah's  trim  little  figure  against  the  gold-white  background 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  31 

of  the  hall.  Old  Jonathan,  her  husband,  also  born  a  slave 
at  World 's-Eiicl,  had  been  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  front 
steps,  and  now  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  greetings  and 
good  wishes,  as  he  took  his  master's  bag  from  him.  Owen 
shook  the  gnarled  black  hand  warmly  and  then  sprang 
up  the  shallow  steps  like  a  boy  towards  his  old  nurse  and 
friend.  "Dear  little  Hannah.  How  good  to  be  at  home 
again!  Are  you  well?  No  cough?" 

And  he  took  both  her  hands  and  looked  down  at  her 
affectionately,  while  her  soft,  loving  negro  eyes  quietly 
drank  in  his  face  with  the  look  of  a  Mary  welcoming  her 
only  son  who  is  also  a  god. 

All  that  she  said,  however,  not  being  gifted  with  the 
power  of  exuberant  self-expression,  was: 

"I'm  real  well,  dear  Mr.  Owen,  sir.  Is  you  well?  You 
looks  well,  thank  God." 

"I'm  always  well,  Hannah,  thank  you.  But  your  cough 
— you  haven't  told  me  about  your  cough?" 

"The  medicine  you  sent  have  cure  it,  Mr.  Owen.  I  don't 
cough  a  speck." 

"Good!  .  .  .  good!"  said  he.  "And  everyone  else  is 
well?" 

"Yes,  sir — all  yo'  people  is  well,  white  and  coloured. 
Yo'  coloured  people  is  most  too  well.  .  .  .  ' 

She  broke  off  and  smiled  with  a  shy  sort  of  mischievous- 
ness  that  he  knew  of  old  had  something  behind  it. 

"That's  mighty  funny,  Hannah,"  said  he,  smiling  in  re 
sponse.  "Too  well!  How  can  that  be?" 

She  gave  him  a  droll,  demure  glance  out  of  her  big, 
dark  eyes,  so  much  too  large  for  her  little  dark  face. 

' '  They  're  so  wrell  they  got  real  sassy,  Mr.  Owen.  I  reckon 
they  like  that  man  Jeshron  in  the  Bible — he  wax  fat  an' 
kick,  you  know." 

"AYhat  are  they  kicking  about,  Hannah?" 

"Oh,  that's  jes'  my  way  o'  puttin'  it,  Mr.  Owen. 
They  ain't  kickin'  about  anything,  but  they  so  satisfied 
over  all  those  nice  presents  you  sent  'em  Christmas, 
they  lay  they  bound  to  come  here  tonight  an'  thank 

you." 

She  gave  him  another  glance,  and  added  with  sly  grav 
ity. 

"They're  right  in  the  East  Hall  now,  Mr.  Owen,  a  whole 
chance  of  'em.  I  do  hope  you  won't  mind.  .  I  couldn't 
put  a  bit  of  sense  in  'em.  They  jes'  would  come." 


32  WORLD'S-END 

"Can  I  have  some  supper  first,  Hannah?"  asked  he 
drolly. 

"The  idea,  Mr.  Owen!  As  if  I'd  let  you  be  worried 
with  all  that  passel  of  gooses  before  you  had  the  good 
supper  I  fixed  for  you  with  these  little  old  black  hands!" 

When  he  had  partaken  of  a  tenth  of  the  good  things  that 
Hannah's  love  had  prepared,  he  went  with  her  to  the  East 
Hall  to  greet  and  be  greeted  by  "his  people." 

They  were  ranged  along  the  white  panelled  walls  in 
shades  of  brown  as  varied  as  a  russet  wood  in  autumn,  a 
gathering  from  different  parts  of  the  whole  neighbourhood, 
men  and  women,  young  and  old; — about  a  score  of  those 
who  had  been  the  slaves  of  his  parents  and  grand-parents, 
with  their  children  and  grandchildren  and  great-grand 
children. 

He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  dark,  melodramatic  face  of 
"Brother  Minor,"  the  negro  pastor  of  Hannah's  church, 
and  guessed  that  he  would  have  to  support  an  address 
from  that  quarter — but  it  did  not  annoy  him,  only  stirred 
something  warm  and  deep  in  his  own  nature  which  always 
went  out  to  his  Brothers  of  the  Dark  Face,  and  brought 
him  back  this  touchingly  full  measure  of  affection. 

There  was  one  that  he  did  not  recognise,  however,  an 
old,  old  man  with  white  wool  and  filmy  eyes,  so  curved  and 
feeble  on  his  hickory  staff  that  he  seemed  the  emblem 
of  a  past  social  order. 

As  Randolph  spoke  to  each  in  turn  he  took  them  by  the 
hand,  and  when  this  ancient's  hand  was  in  his,  so  frail,  so 
trembling,  with  its  bent,  yellow-lined  fingers,  he  said 
gently : 

"Who  are  you,  uncle?    I  haven't  seen  you  before." 

The  old  man  peered  dimly  up  at  him,  and  parted  his 
thick  lips  that  trembled  like  his  hand,  but  no  words  came 
from  them.  He  only  gazed  and  gazed  and  two  tears,  slow 
and  difficult,  as  though  they  were  the  last  of  many,  gath 
ered  on  his  shrivelled  eyelids. 

Hannah  came  softly  up,  her  face  very  kind  and  pitiful. 

"He's  the  oldest  living  man  what  belonged  to  my  dear 
old  Master — yo'  grandfather,  Mr.  Owen.  His  name  is 
Gared  Douglas.  He's  wandered  up  here  to  die,  I  reckon, 
all  the  way  from  Culpepper. " 

She  laid  her  hand  gently  on  the  old  man's  arm. 

"Uncle  Gared — this  is  yo'  ole  Marster's  son,  come  home 
again. ' ' 


WORLD'S-END  33 

Then  the  old  negro  found  his  voice.  It  was  faint  and 
childish  and  trembled  like  his  hand  and  his  lips. 

"Dee  Lawd  takes  away,"  he  said,  "an'  dee  Lawd  gives 
ag'in.  .  .  .  Blessed  be  dee  name  ov  dee  Lawd." 

"  'Scuse  him  if  he  talks  foolishness,  Mr.  Owen,"  said 
Hannah  anxiously.  "He's  got  innocent  like  a  little  child 
once  mo'." 

Owen  led  the  old  man  to  one  of  the  hall  chairs. 

"Sit  down  here,  Uncle  Gared,"  he  said  kindly.  "You're 
too  old  to  stand  about." 

He  helped  the  bent  body  to  lower  itself  into  the  chair, 
saying,  "I  suppose  little  Hannah  here  has  given  you  a 
good  supper." 

The  old  negro  only  gazed  and  gazed  at  him.  At  last  he 
said: 

"Is  you  my  young  Marster  come  home  again?" 

"I'm  Owen  Randolph,  the  son  of  Owen  Randolph,"  said 
Randolph,  smiling. 

But  the  old  man  did  not  smile.  His  forehead  grew  piti 
fully  anxious  over  the  dim,  steady  gaze  that  he  kept  upon 
Owen's  face. 

"Young  Marster  ...  "he  said,  "kin  I  ax  you  a  fa 
vour?" 

Hannah's  soft  voice  slipped  in. 

"Now  don't  you  get  to  talkin',  Uncle  Gared,  child.  You 
jes'  set  quiet  an'  let  the  young  Marster  talk  to  you." 

Still  with  that  look  of  the  old  smitten  hound  crawling 
to  its  master's  feet  to  fix  its  dying  eyes  on  his  face,  old 
Gared  said  again : 

"Kin  I  ax  you  a  favour,  young  Marster?" 

Randolph  put  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder. 

"That  you  can,"  he  said,  "ask  right  on." 

With  the  most  intense  and  piteous  appeal  that  he  had 
ever  heard  in  a  human  voice  the  old  negro  said : 

"Den,  young  Marster,  will  you  please  suh,  tuh  buy 
me?" 

"  'Buy  you'?"  said  Owen,  thinking  that  he  could  not 
have  understood. 

"Yessuh — buy  me  back.  I'll  sell  myself  real  cheap. 
You  kin  hev  me  fo'  fifty  dollars,  Marster.  Dat  ain't 
much  even  furrer  ole  man  lak  me,  but  I  wants  a  grave 
stone  full  me  an'  Susan.  You  see,  young  Marster,  I  want 
to  b'long  tuh  somebody.  Susan's  gone.  I  ain't  got  chick 
nor  chile  nor  kith  nor  kin.  .  .  .  Gared  he  so  lonesome !  Buy 


34  W  O  R  L,  13  '  S  -  E  N  D 

me  an'  lemme  stay  home  wid  you,  young  Marster!  Buy 
me,  an'  keep  me  home!" 

Owen  found  it  hard  to  speak.  As  soon  as  he  could  do  so 
he  said: 

"I  don't  need  to  buy  you  to  do  that,  Uncle  Gared.  You 
shall  stay  with  me  and  have  a  home  at  World 's-End  as 
long  as  you  live." 

The  old  negro  caught  his  hand  and  held  it  to  his  breast. 

''Glory!  Glory!"  he  cried,  transfigured. 

And  all  the  others  intoned  "Glory!  Glory!  Praise 
Gawd!  Amen!" 

Hannah  with  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face  came 
and  led  the  old  man  away.  "Now  res'  quiet,"  she  mur 
mured  to  him.  "You  got  home  at  larst,  po'  ole  man.  Me 
an'  the  Master '11  keep  care  of  you." 

The  deep  silence  that  followed  was  broken  by  Hannah's 
pastor,  who  asked  leave  to  "make  a  prayer  of  thanksgiv 
ing."  In  words  warm  from  his  heart  it  came,  simple  and 
eloquent : 

' '  0  Lord,  Thou  who  did  send  Thy  Darling  Son  to  teach 
men  how  to  love  an'  serve  each  other — to  whom  is  neither 
Jew  nor  Gentile,  nor  black  nor  white — bend  down  and 
weave  our  heart  strings,  and  the  heart  strings  of  this  no 
ble  man,  in  a  strong  web  of  onderstandin'  that  to  the  sec 
ond  an'  third  ginyration,  his  childun's  childun,  an'  our 
childun's  childun,  may  dwell  in  peace  and  goodwill  to 
gether.  Amen ! ' ' 

With  this  prayer  still  in  his  ears,  Randolph  went  up  to 
bed.  He  lay  long  awake,  however,  in  the  old  mahogany 
bedstead,  with  its  carven  posts  and  valance  of  white  dim 
ity,  watching  the  firelight  play  upon  the  white  walls  and 
ceiling,  casting  there  the  pattern  of  the  pierced  brass 
fender  and  giving  evanescent  life  to  the  portrait  of  his 
mother  in  her  blue  tulle  gown  of  the  sixties  with  white 
japonicas  on  hair  and  breast. 

It  was  so  good  to  be  at  home  that  he  lay  awake  wilfully, 
for  the  pleasure  of  realising  it.  The  logs  snapped  and  fell 
between  the  andirons  just  as  when  he  was  a  boy  and  this 
was  the  nursery — filling  the  black  chimney-throat  rath 
clustered  sparks — "people  going  into  church"  his  mother 
used  to  call  them.  The  great  elm  outside  his  window 
cracked  with  the  bitter  cold  just  as  then.  In  the  upper 
hall,  slightly  muffled  by  distance,  the  old  clock  gave  its 
wheezing,  asthmatic  groan  before  striking  eleven,  just  as 


WORLD'S-END  35 

it  had  done  through  his  grandfather's  and  father's  life, 
and  all  the  years  of  his  own  childhood  and  boyhood  and 
manhood. 

Far  away,  like  a  cry  from  the  sad  civilisation  from  wrhich 
he  was  a  refugee  for  a  little  while,  the  long,  melancholy 
note  of  a  passing  train  tore  through  the  quiet  night. 

His  collie,  "Rab,"  started  up,  sniffing  at  a  coal  which 
had  fallen  too  near  him  on  the  hearth,  then  lay  down 
again  with  a  deep  sigh,  nearer  his  master's  bed.  There 
was  no  wind,  but  a  low,  gentle  droning,  like  a  chord  of  mu 
sic,  played  through  the  chinks  and  keyhole  of  his  door. 
Every  book,  every  object  in  this  room  was  a  friend,  dear 
and  familiar  from  his  boyhood.  He  turned  over,  closed 
his  eyes,  opened  them  again  to  look  at  what  he  loved,  lay 
thus,  opening  and  closing  his  eyes,  turning  in  the  great 
bed  with  its  sleek  linen  which  smelt  of  citronalis  and 
rose-geranium,  the  swreet  perfume  that  always  brought  his 
mother  before  him  with  her  beautiful,  sorrowful  brown 
eyes  and  lovely  smile.  .  .  . 

Tomorrow  ho  would  take  a  long  ride  on  "The  Clown" 
through  the  soundless  snow.  .  .  .  "Rab"  would  leap  hap 
pily  in  front.  .  .  .  He  might  carry  that  parcel  to  Nelson's 
Gift  for  Mary.  .  .  .  He  would  skate  too.  .  .  .  He  would 
get  into  that  old  coat  that  was  so  comfortable.  .  .  .  But 
no,  he  must  wear  a  decent  coat  if  he  went  to  the  Nelsons'. 
.  .  .  No  matter  ...  in  any  coat  it  would  be  delightful. 
.  .  .  But  he  could  not  sleep.  He  was  too  happy  through, 
and  through. 


VI 

founder  of  the  branch  of  the  Randolph  family  to 
*  which  Owen  belonged  had  been  a  very  distant  kins 
man  of  the  grandfather  of  John  Randolph  of  Roanoke. 
He  was  the  second  son  of  "Oliver  Randolph  of  Stryde 
Hall  and  Cayleford  in  Buckinghamshire,  gentyleman," 
whose  property  real  and  personal  was  entailed  on  his 
elder  son,  Oliver,  and  who,  on  acquiring  a  royal  grant 
in  Virginia  of  some  forty  thousand  acres,  had  settled  it 
upon  this  second  son,  Owen.  That  this  especial  branch  of 
the  family  had  been  one  of  considerable  means  in  England 
from  1460  to  1528  the  remaining  records  of  lands  bought 
and  leased  bore  ample  proof.  That  they  were  distinguished 


36  WORLD'S-EXD 

by  an  unusual  gift  in  affairs  of  state  they  considered  due 
to  the  fact  of  one  of  them  having  married  about  1576  a 
relative  of  that  Secretary  of  State  who  kept  his  office  under 
four  monarchs,  Henry  VIII.,  Edward  VI.,  Mary  and  Eliza 
beth.  "A  man  of  wonderful  tact.  Under  Henry  'he 
observed  his  humour';  in  Edwrard's  time  'kept  the  law'; 
in  Mary's  'intended  wholly  State  affairs,'  and  in  Eliza 
beth's  was  'religious.'  ' 

The  father  of  the  present  Owen's  ancestor  had  taken 
possession  of  his  Virginia  estate  in  1651,  and  on  it  his 
son  had  built  "a  fayre  house  tho'  littel,"  in  1652.  This 
house,  which  had  been  pulled  down  and  replaced  by  an 
other  in  1730,  he  had  called  "  World 's-End"  from  its  sit 
uation  on  a  fold  of  the  Western  mountains  commanding  a 
view  of  both  valleys  and  the  distant  range  of  the  Blue 
Ridge,  which  doubtless  seemed  to  the  exiled  Englishman 
like  a  rampart  guarding  the  extreme  end  of  the  earth. 

The  motto  of  this  branch  was  "Moy  et  le  roy, "  and  its 
crest  "a  nag's  head  couped,  bridled,  or."  Owen  never 
used  his  arms,  as  he  thought  such  things  paradoxical  in 
an  American,  but  Sally 's  path  in  life  was  pleasantly  strewn 
with  little  nags'  heads. 

Mary  had  once  said  that  she  believed  Sally  would  stamp 
that  horse's  head  on  her  sponge  if  it  \vould  stick,  and 
that  the  only  reasonable  heraldic  device  that  she  had  ever 
seen  borne  by  a  Virginian  was  that  of  her  friend  Henry 
Pilkington — "a  husbandman  mowing,  proper." 

Their  mother,  to  whom  Sally  attributed  Owen's  idealis 
tic-socialistic  vagaries,  was  still  known  in  Virginia  as  "the 
beautiful  Janet  McCleod."  She  had  been  a  lovely,  wistful, 
melancholy,  other-worldly  soul,  whose  chief  joy  on  earth 
was  in  dreams  of  heaven.  Two  divine  passions  had  shared 
her  ardent  and  spiritual  heart,  motherhood  and  adoration 
of  the  Christ,  and  she  had  died  when  Owen  was  ten.  He 
had  loved  her  as  she  him,  and  to  this  day  the  scent  of 
flowers  in  a  church  made  him  shudder.  Hers  was  the  first 
and  last  funeral  that  he  had  ever  attended.  That  coffin 
with  its  ornate  silver  handles,  the  flowers  that  she  had 
loved  and  tended  heaped  upon  it,  so  soon  to  be  crushed  by 
the  clammy  red  clay;  the  mournful  chanting  of  her  fa 
vourite  hymn,  with  which  she  had  so  often  sung  him  to 
sleep  in  her  tender  contralto ;  the  gowned  clergyman  walk 
ing  before  that  black,  oblong  case,  and  reading  words  from 
a  book  which  the  boy  denied  passionately  in  his  heart  with 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  37 

a  sort  of  rage  of  grief,  because  it  was  hideous  to  him  to 
think  of  his  mother  struggling  up  bewildered  out  of  that 
black  box  at  the  Last  Day — with  shrivelled  flowers  tum 
bling  about  her,  and  the  red  clay  in  her  lovely  hair — all 
this,  together  with  the  scent  of  the  new  crape  in  which 
his  grandmother  and  aunts  were  smothered,  the  measured 
tolling  of  the  bell  which  wrung  his  every  nerve  like  a  loud, 
brutal  voice,  reminding  him  with  rude  insistence  of  his 
loss,  wove  about  him  on  that  day  a  web  of  horror,  in  which 
he  and  his  dreams  had  been  netted  for  many  a  long  year 
after. 

And  when  he  grew  to  be  a  man  he  thought  of  the  un 
conscious  cruelty  which  leads  pious  people  to  let  a  little 
child's  last  memory  of  its  mother's  face  be,  not  of  that 
face  alight  with  sweet,  familiar  love,  but  cold,  stern,  ma 
jestically  alien,  resting  upon  a  bleak  cushion  of  white 
satin  with  that  delicately  cynical  smile  of  death  which 
seems  to  say,  "All  you  whom  I  loved,  stand  aside.  You 
have  no  part  in  me  nor  I  in  you.  There  is  no  god  but 
.Death,  and  Mortality  is  his  prophet." 

For  long  years  the  thing  which  wrung  his  heart,  when 
he  recalled  his  mother's  face  as  it  had  looked  then,  was 
the  memory  of  the  pretty  black  mole,  like  a  little  "mouche" 
at  the  corner  of  one  eye.  This  little  mole  had  been  his 
special  place  to  kiss  in  the  sweet  whimsy  of  childhood; — 
he  had  called  it  her  "one  sin"  and  declared  that  he  would 
kiss  it  white  before  she  went  to  heaven.  And  now  she 
was  in  heaven  and  the  pretty  mole  was  still  there,  the  tiny 
source  of  EO  much  innocent  love  and  laughter,  there  in  that 
smug  box  with  its  neat  jeweller's  lining  of  white  satin, 
and  the  grim  holes  where  the  screws  would  fit  when  the 
lid  was  put  in  place.  Somehow  this  had  seemed  to  him 
most  horrible  of  all,  and  he  had  hated  God  for  thinking 
of  such  lovely  things  and  then  defacing  them  so  ruth 
lessly. 

Shortly  after  his  mother's  death  his  father  had  received 
a  highly  advantageous  offer  to  assist  in  building  an  im 
portant  railway  in  France,  and,  accompanied  by  their 
mother's  elder  sister  Susan,  he  and  Sally  went  with  their 
father  to  that  country  for  an  indefinite  period. 

In  about  two  years  from  this  time  Aunt  Susan  mar 
ried  a  French  gentleman  from  Normandy,  the  Comte  de 
Mauvigny,  and  was  thereafter  known  to  them  by  her  re 
quest  as  "tante  Suzanne." 


38  WORLD'S-END 

Sally  was  educated  at  a  convent  near  M.  de  Mauvigny's 
country  place,  and  Owen  sent  across  the  Channel  to  Har 
row. 

While  Sally  was  still  learning  French,  embroidery  and 
sweet  manners  from  the  gentle  nuns  of  the  ' '  Sacre  Cceur ' ' 
and  Owen,  at  Harrow,  was  absorbing,  along  with  other 
more  important  things,  the  crisp  well-bred  accent  that 
clung  to  him.  through  life.  Colonel  Randolph  himself,  his 
work  in  France  completed,  went  to  Egypt  to  undertake 
some  colossal  engineering  exploits  for  the  Khedive. 

It  was  there  that  the  foundation  of  his  great  fortune 
was  laid. 

From  Harrow  Owen  went  to  Oxford,  and,  as  Colonel 
Randolph  very  wisely  thought  that  a  young  man  who  was 
to  inherit  so  considerable  a  fortune  should  know  some 
thing  of  how  to  manage  it,  Owen  had  finally  entered  the 
office  of  his  father's  solicitor  in  New  York,  but,  after  two 
years  of  the  kind  of  work  he  had  never  really  cared  for, 
he  had  withdrawn  from  his  engagements,  with  his  father's 
consent,  and  travelled  widely  in  different  countries  for 
some  time. 

Owen  had  been  always  at  heart  a  dreamer  and  a  scholar, 
the  stuff  of  which  the  man  of  letters  rather  than  the  law 
yer  is  created.  But  writing  essays,  no  matter  how  suc 
cessful,  did  not  seem  to  him  an  occupation  worthy  of  a 
man's  whole  effort,  nor  a  task  of  sufficient  importance  for 
a  lifetime.  The  fret  of  the  twentieth  century  to  solve  vital 
problems,  if  only  in  part,  was  upon  him.  His  father's 
millions  clogged  his  spirit.  His  father  had  earned  them, 
he  had  the  right  of  enjoyment  in  them,  but  to  Owen  it 
seemed  as  though  by  their  possession  he  was  constrained 
into  the  attitude  of  a  nestling  arrested  in  its  development, 
into  whose  effortless,  open  beak  the  unscratched-for  juicy 
grub  is  being  continually  dropped  by  those  who  know  the 
joy  of  wings. 

VII 

EN  sprang  from  bed  with  a  bound  next  morning. 
A  huge  log-fire,  just  lighted,  was  crackling  and  flack 
ing  its  bright  pennons  in  the  broad  chimney-place,  but 
the  room  was  large,  the  thermometer  little  above  zero,  and 
it  would  take  a  good  hour  to  temper  that  biting  atmosphere 
— he  always  slept  with  windows  and  shutters  wide. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  39 

The  day,  blue  as  a  gentian,  poured  in  from  every  quarter, 
a  shimmering  flood  shot  with  gold.  The  peculiar,  fairy- 
like  radiance  of  reflected  snow  beat  upon  the  ceiling. 

He  looked  out.  The  sloping  lawn  was  a  sheet  of  orange- 
white,  netted  with  cobalt  shadows.  From  its  surface  rose 
the  dark  steins  of  the  trees,  each  bearing  its  smoke-like 
web  of  winter  twigs.  The  great  hedges  of  box  and  thickets 
of  mountain  laurel  seemed  almost  black  in  the  contrasting 
glare.  Beyond  all,  to  the  southward,  flowed  that  band 
of  air-washed  violet  beloved  by  all  dwellers  on  the  mountain 
slopes  of  the  "Western  valley,  the  dim,  dream-haunted, 
skyey  waste  of  the  far  horizon. 

After  luncheon  he  was  to  ride  over  the  farm,  and  then 
visit  the  schools.  lie  decided  to  go  for  a  walk.  Three 
dogs  followed  or  rather  preceded  him;  Rab,  who  now  and 
then  ran  along  on  his  snout,  gobbling  snow  as  he  did  so, 
after  the  weird  manner  of  collies — his  Irish  setter,  "Bran," 
and  an  aged  fox-terrier,  whose  real  name  "Mr.  "Worldly- 
Wise  Man"  had  been  shortened  to  "Wizzy. " 

While  out  riding  one  day  Owen  had  heard  faint  yaps  of 
distress,  and,  turning  aside  into  the  lane  whence  they  pro 
ceeded,1  had  found  a  bedraggled  pup,  struggling  on  its  side 
in  a  puddle.  To  take  it  up  before  him  on  the  saddle,  re 
gardless  of  mud,  was  Owen's  way — one  of  the  many  ways 
that  Sally  found  so  trying.  He  carried  it  back  to  World 's- 
End.  gave  it  warm  baths  with  his  own  hands,  and  sent  for 
the  vet.  Diagnosis  declared  Wizzy 's  ailment  to  be  strych 
nine,  probably  absorbed  while  devouring  poisoned  meat 
set  for  weasels  or  such  stragglers  as  himself.  He  was  cured, 
but  ever  after  his  little  spine  had  resembled  the  letter  "  S, " 
and  when  he  ran  his  hind  legs  went  faster  and  more  jaunt 
ily  than  his  front  legs,  giving  him  a  rakish,  devil-may-care 
aspect  totally  out  of  keeping  with  his  serious,  rather  cyni 
cal  character,  and  his  solemn  eyes,  with  their  white  under- 
rims  in  which  was  always  a  tear,  as  in  old  prints  of  the 
repentant  Magdalene.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  "Wizzy" 
had  the  most  tender  place  in  his  master's  affections,  for  he 
was  allowed  to  sleep  on  the  foot  of  his  bed,  while  "Rab" 
was  only  permitted  the  hearth-rug  and  "Bran"  had  a  ken 
nel  of  his  own.  The  last  two,  as  one  might  say,  were  dear 
and  familiar  friends,  but  Wizzy  was  more  like  an  uncomely 
orphan  child  that  had  no  one  else  to  love  him.  He  re 
paid  this  love  ten-fold,  as  is  tfce  other-worldly  way  of 
WTizzies,  and  was  used  to  regard  his  master  when  he  re- 


40  WORLD'S-END 

turned  from  an  absence  with  an  expression  which  must 
have  resembled  that  of  Adam  before  his  fatal  offence,  as 
he  gazed  up  at  the  Lord  come  to  walk  in  Eden  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening. 

Owen  whistled  as  he  drew  near  the  stables — a  whistle 
not  meant  for  dogs,  as  they  well  knew,  for  they  paid  no 
attention  whatever — but  which  set  all  the  horses  nickering, 
and  caused  leaf-eared  heads  with  great,  gleaming  eyes  like 
bubbles  of  dark  glass  to  be  thrust  over  the  gates  of  loose 
boxes. 

He  bestowed  sugar  with  impartial  justice,  smiling  to 
himself  as  he  fed  Richard's  mare,  it  was  so  like  Richard 
to  have  a  jet-black,  hysterical  mare,  with  no  speck  of 
white  on  hoof  or  hide  and  to  call  her  "El  Borak, "  after 
the  steed  that  bore  Mahomet  to  Paradise.  But  his  own 
favourite  riding-horse,  "The  Clown,"  claimed  his  chief 
attention.  He  and  "The  Clown"  were  real  cronies.  Owen 
said  that  The  Clown  was  a  wag,  and  that  some  animals 
had  a  sense  of  humour,  no  matter  what  scientists  declared. 
A  roguish  eye  was  certainly  The  Clown's,  roguish  and  pa 
thetic  at  the  same  time.  He  was  used  to  gaze  up  at  his 
master,  as  Owen  came  down  the  front  steps  to  mount  him, 
with  his  forehead  lifted  into  two  wrinkled  eyebrows  by  a 
look  of  such  wistful  intensity  as  made  his  equine  face  dif 
ferent  from  the  face  of  all  other  horses.  Some  dogs  will 
look  man  in  the  eye,  but  The  Clown  was  the  only  horse 
that  Owen  had  ever  known  to  do  so. 

He  was  a  big,  sixteen  and  a  half  hand,  up-standing  grey, 
rising  nine,  with  a  fine  forehand,  but  a  little  too  short  in 
the  quarters,  though  strong,  or  he  could  not  have  borne 
Qwen's  fourteen  and  a  half  stone  so  blithely.  His  sire 
Grey-Eagle's  blood  kept  him  from  coarseness  and  his  crest 
and  thropple  were  like  an  Arab's.  But  it  was  his  fan 
tastic,  gay,  jest-loving  nature  that  especially  endeared  him 
to  Owen.  The  two  were  far  more  like  dog  and  master 
than  horse  and  master. 

Owen  rubbed  The  Clown's  mousey  nose  and  he  returned 
the  attention  by  taking  Owen's  sleeve  between  soft  prehen 
sile  lips  and  bunting  him  gently.  As  The  Clown  was  being 
saddled,  George  Downer,  the  manager,  came  into  the  stable 
yard. 

"Anything  wrong,  George?"  asked  Owen. 

"No,  sir,  I  only  just  thought  of  something.  You  said 
this  mornin'  you  might  be  ridin'  over  to  Nelson's  Gift — 


WORLD'S-END  41 

and  I  just  remembered  what  I'd  heard  about  the  Holly- 
brook  Woods." 

"What  about  them?"  asked  Owen,  glancing  quickly  to 
where  the  wood  in  question  made  so  comely  a  feature  of 
the  winter  landscape. 

"I  hoard  tell  that  Mr.  Nelson  was  go  in'  to  sell  'em  to 
a  saw-mill." 

"To  a  saw-mill!  The  Hollybrook  Woods!"  exclaimed 
Owen,  aghast. 

"That's  what  I've  heard  tell — I  know  how  much  "you 
think  of  'em,  and  I  thought  you  might  want  to  put  in  a 
bid." 

"It's  to  be  an  auction  then?" 

"Yes.  sir — sealed  bids." 

"I  think  I  can  settle  with  Mr.  Nelson  without  waiting 
for  an  auction." 

"Don't  you  pay  too  much  for  them  woods,  sir,"  said 
Downer,  giving  him  a  brotherly  look  out  of  shrewd,  direct, 
iron-grey  eyes." 

VIII 

npIIAT  ride  through  the  snowy  fields  and  woods 
towards  Nelson's  Gift  might  have  been  a  progression  of 
Death  on  the  Pale  Horse  for  all  the  sound  it  made.  It  was 
like  cantering  through  a  white  dream.  The  snow  was  so 
dry  and  fluffy  that  it  did  not  even  "ball"  in  The  Clown's 
hoofs,  the  air  so  still  that  its  bitter  edge  was  not  too  bit 
ing.  Owen  sat  loosely,  far  back  in  the  saddle,  giving  him 
self  to  the  long  rock-a-bye  of  the  grey's  even  gallop,  with 
all  the  primitive  pleasure  of  a  boy  in  a  swing.  The  crows 
were  tremendously  busy  over  some  social  disruption. 
They  flew  and  cawed  and  lighted  and  cawed  by  twos  and 
threes  and  in  posses  on  every  fence-rail.  Under  the  eye 
of  a  great,  round,  daffodil-coloured  sun,  the  earth  lay  in 
her  dazzling  winding-sheet  more  beautiful  thus  than  ever. 
Nelson's  Gift  was  a  small,  very  old  house,  half  of  frame, 
half  of  brick,  tucked  away  among  gentle,  pastoral  hills  at 
the  back  of  Hollybrook  Wood,  about  five  miles  from 
World 's-End.  On  the  side  nearest  the  house  the  wood 
was  fenced  off,  and  a  five-barred  gate  with  a  rusty  chain 
arrangement  had  to  be  opened.  As  Owen  was  struggling 
with  this  chain,  not  wishing  to  dismount  if  he  could  avoid 
it,  he  saw  a  tall  girl  coming  towards  him  down  the  hill 


42  WORLD'S-END 

on  the  crest  of  which  Nelson's  Gift  was  situated.  She 
waved  her  hand  as  though  bidding  him.  wait  for  something, 
and,  glancing  down  at  the  other  side  of  the  gate,  he  found 
that  he  had  been  struggling  with  a  padlocked  chain.  As 
she  came  nearer  he  saw  that  the  hair  under  her  little  fur 
hat  was  brilliant  and  shaded  like  a  pheasant's  breast,  and 
he  was  sure  that  this  could  be  no  other  than  Phoebe  Nel 
son. 

She  came  up  quite  breathless  from  hurrying  through  the 
deep  snow. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  in  a  fresh,  joyous  young  voice 
which  seemed  to  express  that  she  was  delighted  to  be  speak 
ing  to  a  live  human  being,  who  was  not  her  father  or  the 
overseer,  or  a  "person  of  colour."  "We  thought  every 
body  in  the  neighbourhood  knew  that  this  road  wras  closed 
now. ' ' 

As  she  was  speaking  she  thrust  a  key  into  the  rusty  pad 
lock,  and  turned  it  with  both  hands,  but  it  would  not 
give.  Owen  had  dismounted  as  she  came  up,  and  offered 
to  help,  telling  his  name  as  he  did  so. 

"Oh,  I  knew  that,"  she  said  with  a  smile,  friendly  and 
joyous  like  her  voice.  "I've  seen  you  often  when  I  was 
a  little  girl.  I'm  Phoebe  Nelson." 

She  was  dressed  in  a  short  skirt  and  jacket  of  heavy 
grey  corduroy  and  wore  "rubber-boots."  Where  the  sun 
struck  her  hair  it  was  like  fire  and  the  fur  of  her  cap  a 
rim  of  blue  ashes  above  it. 

Looking  at  her,  Owen  recalled  Mary's  saying  about  the 
"whitest  skin  and  the  reddest  mouth."  As  she  looked 
back  at  him  he  noted  her  lashes,  short,  thick  and  black 
like  Mary's,  and  remembered  that  her  mother  had  been  a 
Talliaferro.  The  eyes  under  those  lashes,  however,  were 
not  pale  grey  like  Mary's,  but  blue — all  sorts  of  blue — 
dark,  light,  greenish,  purplish — a  blue  that  seemed  to  over 
flow  and  tinge  the  whites,  so  that  behind  the  gathered 
lashes  long  pools  of  varied  blueness  gleamed  with  an  effect 
of  jewels  fallen  among  dark  grasses. 

She  was  not  what  could  be  called  a  perfectly  beautiful 
girl,  though,  in  spite  of  her  lovely  colouring.  Her  nose 
was  too  short,  her  chin  a  little  too  prominent,  her  mouth, 
while  it  had  the  inimitable  silken  smoothness  of  youth, 
too  full — a  mouth  not  of  the  spirit,  but  triumphantly  and 
radiantly  of  the  flesh — laughter  and  pleasure-loving — 
curved  out  at  the  centre,  carved  up  at  the  corners. 


W  O  K  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  43 

The  eyes  and  mouth  of  Phoebe  seemed  emblematic  of 
the  two  natures  which  struggle  in  every  child  of  man.  And 
Owen  recalled  another  of  Mary's  descriptive  phrases — 
"as  passionate  as  a  humming-bird."  Phoebe's  vivid  young 
face  had  in  it  that  will-to-live  and  to  live  ardently  which, 
more  than  anything,  perhaps,  makes  a  human  being  inter 
esting  to  speculate  about. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  was  repeating  as,  the  gate  now 
open,  he  came  through.  ""What  a  dear  horse.  I  do  be 
lieve  he's  asking  me  for  sugar." 

"The  Clown"  was  nudging  and  nuzzling  at  her  pockets, 
much  as  a  calf  invites  its  mother  to  be  more  generous  with 
its  supply  of  milk.  She  pinched  his  soft,  rubbery  lips  with 
knowing  fingers.  "I  do  love  horses,"  she  said,  "and 
dogs.  ...  ;'  Stooping,  she  stroked  Wizzy  along  his  curved 
spine,  and,  while  savouring  the  caress,  that  little  cynic 
looked  up  through  frozen  tears  at  his  master  as  if  saying, 
"Is  this  a  person  I  should  really  know?"  Rab  and 
Bran  were  far  ahead  in  hysterical  pursuit  of  a  rabbit. 
"Dear,  dear!"  continued  Phoebe,  addressing  Wizzy,  "you 
certainly  are  a  scornful  little  dog.  What  twisted  his  poor 
little  back?"  she  ended,  warm  pity  in  her  fresh  voice. 

AYizzy's  story  was  told  as  they  walked  together  up  the 
slope  of  the  white  hillside. 

Her  father  had  said  once,  referring  to  Owen,  that  he 
was  as  near  being  a  Socialist  as  one  sprung  from  Randolph 
and  McCleod  could  be.  Glancing  at  him  now,  she  thought 
how  dreadful  it  would  be  to  see  beautiful  World 's-End 
cut  up  into  kitchen  gardens,  and  the  house  (so  she 
imagined)  turned  into  a  sort  of  Socialistic  inn  where  no 
one  would  pay  board,  of  course,  but  each  would  dig  in  his 
horrid  little  garden. 

Phoebe  wras  more  of  a  mid-Victorian  maiden  than  a  mod 
ern  one.  Her  short,  blithe  life  had  been  spent  chiefly  in 
these  Virginia  mountains  among  old-fashioned,  somewhat 
straitly  bred  elders, — a  Bishop-fearing,  God-respecting 
community  who  still  looked  upon  a  proper  marriage  as 
the  chief  event  in  a  woman's  life.  Far  from  her  had  passed 
the  scythed  wheels  of  the  woman's  movement,  the  heavy 
tread  of  organised  charities,  the  cohorts  of  improving 
lecturers  under  the  pied  banners  of  culture  to  the  shrill 
music  of  the  pipes  of  progress.  She  was  as  full  of  romance 
as  though  she  had  lived  in  the  days  when  the  "Waverly" 
novels  thrilled  all  hearts. 


44  WORLD'S -END 

She  stole  shy,  appraising  glances  at  Owen  as  they 
trudged  on  side  by  side  through  the  two  feet  of  salt-like 
snow.  She  decided  in  her  girl's  phraseology  that  he  was 
"very  handsome;  that  he  did  not  show  his  age."  If  only 
he  had  been  seven  and  twenty  instead  of  seven  and  forty 
...  it  might  have  been  he  .  .  .  (in  her  thought  Phoebe 
said  comfortably,  "it  might  have  been  him")  that  wonder 
ful  lover  who  in  her  firm  conviction  was  to  appear  sud 
denly,  all  splendid  like  Lohengrin  before  Elsa,  and  bear 
her  away  to  realms  of  married  bliss.  In  every  wind  she 
heard  the  possible  beat  of  his  horse's  hoofs — in  the  sudden 
opening  of  a  door: — he  might  stand  behind  it.  AYhen  a 
letter  of  introduction  was  sent  to  her  father — this  time, 
instead  of  some  frowsy  professor,  it  might  be  he.  When 
she  rode  on  old  "Councillor"  she  reined  in  at  every  curve 
in  hills  and  woods  .  .  .  just  around  that  bend,  hidden  by 
the  stems  of  the  trees,  he  might  be  riding  towards  her. 
Today,  when  she  had  seen  Owen  at  the  gate  her  heart 
had  given  a  stinging  bound.  "What  if,  at  last,  it  were  he? 
She  had  only  five  more  years  of  youth.  If  he  did  not 
come  and  claim  her  before  she  were  five  and  twenty,  the 
unspeakable  disgrace  of  old  maidhood  would  fall  upon 
her.  She  had  thought  at  sixteen  that  eighteen  would  be 
the  proper  age  for  her  marriage,  at  eighteen  she  had  de 
ferred  it  to  twenty,  now,  at  twenty,  she  gave  herself  the 
leeway  of  five  more  years  of  celibacy.  And  if  not  wedded, 
by  that  time — the  deluge!  It  seemed  so  dreadful  a  con 
tingency  that  she  would  not  even  consider  it  in  her  thought, 
but  brushed  it  away  with  an  "of  course." 

It  never  occurred  to  her  to  look  for  her  mate  among 
those  whom  she  already  knew.  A  lot  of  good-looking,  long- 
legged  cousins,  scattered  about  among  her  native  moun 
tains,  meant  only  "those  boys"  to  her.  She  had  seen  but 
little  of  the  world.  Some  weeks  every  year  spent  with  a 
cousin  at  the  University  of  Virginia,  two  visits  to  Balti 
more,  a  fortnight  in  New  York  last  winter  with  her  Aunt 
Frances,  who  had  a  little  flat,  and  who  gave  her  an  after 
noon  tea  and  two  theatre  patries — this  summed  up  her 
experience  of  the  world. 

"What  a  pity,"  said  Phoebe  to  herself,  stealing  another 
narrow  blue  glance,  "what  a  pity  that  he  is  forty-seven.'* 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  45 


IX 

found  her  father  in  a  pretty  room,  all  panelled 
•*•  with  dim  green,  and  furnished  with  chairs  and  sofas 
covered  in  the  cross-stitch  of  Queen  Caroline's  day,  now 
much  worn  and  faded.  He  was  seated  in  one  of  those  old 
"half-wa}r  house"  chairs,  with  a  shepherd's  plaid  over  his 
knees,  and  his  bony  feet,  in  carpet  slippers,  resting  on  a 
hot  brick  covered  also  with  a  carpet.  His  collar  was  high 
and  old-fashioned,  reaching  to  his  waxen  gills.  He  wore 
a  broad  tie  of  black  satin  and  a  browny-black  frock  coat. 
On  an  array  of  small  tables  with  twisted  legs  were  scat 
tered  sheets  of  manuscript,  documents  old  and  new,  and 
many  books. 

Phoebe  said : 

"Father,  here  is  Mr.  Randolph  come  to  see  you,"  and 
the  old  scholar  smiled  politely,  disclosing  a  row  of  more 
than  usually  monotonous  false  teeth,  which  at  once,  in 
some  odd  way,  gave  his  mouth  the  look  of  an  old  lady's 
feature  astray  in  the  countenance  of  masculinity.  "I  am 
very  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  he.  "Pardon  my  not 
rising.  I  have  just  succeeded  in  getting  my  feet  warm." 

Owen  drew  up  a  chair  and  asked  how  the  genealogical 
researches  were  progressing. 

Mr.  Nelson  replied  with  words  to  the  effect  that,  when 
one's  bark  foundered  on  the  deep  of  genealogy,  it  was  al 
ways  to  another  sea,  and  proceeded  to  read,  at  some  length, 
a  statement  which  went  to  prove  that  the  families  of  Che- 
vail  and  Cabell  are  probably  identical,  not  wholly  different, 
as  he  had  always  thought. 

Phoebe  sat  rather  dejectedly  during  this  address,  twirl 
ing  a  curtain  tassel  for  one  of  the  cats  to  play  with,  and, 
when  the  extract  drew  to  a  close,  Owen,  moved  by  the  dis 
consolate  look  on  the  young  face,  resolutely  changed  the 
subject  for  the  time  being. 

"By  the  way,  sir,"  said  he,  "I'm  sorry  you've  had  to 
close  the  road  from  Hollybrook  Wood  through  this  es 
tate.  I  hope  neighbours  haven't  been  behaving  unpleas 
antly?" 

Mr.  Nelson's  waxen  face  took  on  the  look  of  someone 
who  from  a  pleasant  dream  is  wakened  by  falling  upon 
the  floor. 

"If  it  were  only  neighbours,  sir,"  he  exclaimed,  with. 


46  WORLD'S-END 

deep  feeling — then,  turning  to  his  daughter,  said,  ' '  Phoebe, 
my  dear,  some  Madeira  and  a  few  of  Patty's  thin  biscuit 
would  not  be  amiss." 

As  Phoebe  left  the  room  on  this  errand,  he  turned  again 
to  Owen,  saying,  "I  do  not  wish  to  aggravate  the  sense 
of  injury  which  my  daughter  has  already  very  strongly. 
She  is  a  creature  of  impulse — wholly  unlike  either  her 
dear  mother  or  myself.  I  think  I  can  trace  the  strain  in 
her  directly  to  an  ancestress  who  was  called  'Imperious 
Prue  Horsemandon '  from  her  overardent  character.  There 
is  a  portrait  of  her  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  at  my  grand 
father's  place  in  King  William  County.  The  eyes  and 
mouth  are  exact  replicas  of  Phoebe 's. ' ' 

"A  spirited  girl  is  a  delightful  thing,  sir,"  said  Owen, 
smiling.  ' '  May  I  hear  what  has  roused  my  cousin  Phoebe 's 
spirit?" 

"Why,  sir,"  replied  the  old  man,  much  gratified  by  this 
pleasant  reminder  that  he  was  talking  to  a  kinsman,  "it 
is  this  unfortunate,  I  may  say  abominable,"  continued  he 
with  some  heat,  "question  of  roads." 

"Of  roads?"  said  Owen,  raising  his  eyebrows,  "is  more 
than  one  road  involved?" 

' '  Two — two  roads  have  been  closed  against  us,  Mr.  Ran 
dolph — and  not  by  strangers  but  by  one  of  our  own  blood. ' ' 

"That  seems  an  incredible  thing  to  happen  in  this  neigh 
bourhood,"  said  Owen  with  genuine  sympathy.  "Cour 
tesy  about  private  roads  is  a  tradition  with  us." 

"It  is  not  so  with  these,"  interrupted  the  old  man — a 
flush  had  come  into  his  waxy  cheeks.  "It  is  the  son  of 
my  own  brother's  son  who  has  done  me  this  injury,"  he 
announced.  "I  can  place  it  only  to  the  account  of  one 
thing — the  influence  exerted  upon  him  by  his  Scottish 
agent,  whom  he  employs  to  manage  the  estate — a  cur 
mudgeon,  sir,  a  typical  curmudgeon!  In  fact  I  am  con 
vinced  that  it  is  all  this  man's  doing!" 

"But,"  said  Owen,  puzzled,  "how  can  he  own  an  es 
tate  so  near? — your  land  joins  mine  at  the  Green-Flower." 

"Ah,"  replied  Mr.  Nelson,  his  face  looking  worn  and 
very  aged  all  at  once,  "there  you  have  touched  the  really 
tragic  element  in  the  matter.  As  you  doubtless  know, 
sir,  the  war  completely  impoverished  my  father — Nelson's 
Gift  is  heavily  mortgaged.  My  chief  ambition,  by  saving 
here  and  there,  and  by  the  royalties  that  I  may  derive  from 
this  work, ' '  he  laid  a  rheumatic  hand  on  the  mass  of  manu- 


WORLD'S-END  47 

script  near  by,  "my  fondest  ambition, — an  old  man's  am 
bition, — is  to  leave  Nelson's  Gift  unencumbered  to  my 
daughter.  I,  therefore,  compromised  by  allowing  the 
young  man  to  purchase  the  eight  hundred  acres  known  as 
'Cross-Road  Farm.'  I  acted  hastily;  too  hastily.  I  ne 
glected  to  reserve  the  right  of  way  to  the  only  road  which 
leads  from  Nelson's  Gift  to  the  Station  at  Crewe.  It  is 
imperative  that  I  should  have  a  new  road.  Therefore,  I 
shall  have  to  part  with  Ilollybrook  ATood." 

"Mr.  Nelson,"  said  Owen,  impulsively,  "I  should  be 
very  glad  TO  buy  it  and  leave  it  standing,  with  perpetual 
right  of  way  through  it  for  Nelson's  Gift." 

"My  dear  sir,"  stammered  the  old  man,  "my  dear 
sir. ' ' 

He  had  a  disconcerting  habit  of  pulling  the  short  hairs 
from  his  nostrils  in  little  snatches,  while  talking  gravely, 
and  now  it  seemed  as  though  he  would  denude  his  austere 
nose  completely.  ' '  I  cannot  express  to  you  .  .  . "  he  began 
again. 

Suddenly  his  face  worked  violently — he  snatched  off  his 
spectacles  and  buried  his  face  in  his  handkerchief  with  a 
dislocating  sneeze. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  murmured,  looking  up,  rather  shame 
faced.  "It  is  a  strange  weakness,  but  I  always  sneeze  in 
moments  of  strong  emotion." 

And  there  were  tears  in  his  little  black  eyes. 

They  had  talked  the  matter  thoroughly  over  by  the  time 
that  Phoebe  came  back  with  the  thin  biscuits  and  Madeira. 
She  had  delayed  on  purpose,  knowing  very  well  that  her 
father  would  prefer  to  explain  matters  to  his  guest  in  pri 
vate.  As  she  entered  Owen  was  saying  that  he  would  begin 
fencing  the  Ilollybrook  "Woods  from  the  Cross-Road  farm  at 
once,  and  Phoebe,  catching  only  the  last  words,  poured  the 
full  blueness  of  her  eyes,  usually  half-veiled,  into  a  wide 
look  of  anger,  exclaiming: 

' '  'Twas  I  who  got  father  to  shut  him  out  from  our  road 
to  the  mountain.  Now  he'll  have  to  go  around  three  miles 
to  haul  wood!" 

The  old  man  said,  as  sternly  as  his  new-found  relief  and 
happiness  would  permit: 

"We  must  not  nurse  rancour,  my  daughter.  I  have 
some  very  good  news  for  you." 

"Even  the  Lord  didn't  say  we  must  let  people  jump 
up  and  down  on  us  ..."  began  Phoebe  rebelliously. 


48  WORLD'S-END 

' '  But,  Father ! ' '  she  hurried  on  in  another  voice,  ' '  you  look 
tired  .  .  .  take  your  wine  and  biscuit  right  away." 

"Serve  your  Cousin  Owen  first,  my  dear." 

"Here's  to  the  health  of  the  new  road,"  Owen  said, 
smiling,  and  Mr.  Nelson  bowed  grandly  from  the  waist 
up  above  the  shepherd's  plaid  and  said,  "Your  health, 
sir." 

Then  he  explained  to  Phoebe.  She  stood  stockstill  under 
the  first  shock  of  delight — then  span  round  and  round, 
glowing,  sparkling.  She  had  taken  off  her  fur  cap,  and 
Owen  saw  a  beautiful,  full  forehead,  neither  high  nor  low, 
on  which  the  sorrel  hair  grew  in  a  "  widow 's  peak. ' '  This 
forehead  of  Phoebe's  spiritualised  her  whole  face. 

"Oh!"  she  cried.  "Oh!  I  think,— I  think "  She 

ran  to  Owen  and  seized  both  his  hands.  "I  think  you're 
just  splendid  .  .  .  Cousin  Owen!" 

Owen  did  not  guess  all  that  this  ' '  Cousin  Owen ' '  meant 
of  loyal  devotion  and  enthusiasm.  It  was  Phoebe's  uncon 
ditional  surrender  to  a  hero-worship  that  was  one  of  the 
strongest  emotions  her  nature  had  yet  known. 

He  flushed  up  like  a  boy,  and  she  cried  out  between  tears 
and  laughing,  "Oh,  father!  look!  He's  blushing  because 
he's  done  such  a  lovely  thing!" 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  remonstrated  the  old  gentleman, 
much  moved,  "you  embarrass  our  kind  friend." 

"VVizzy,  who  had  stolen  in  with  Phoebe,  here  inadvertently 
came  to  the  rescue  by  "saying  his  prayers"  to  the  plate 
of  biscuit. 

"Look  at  the  darling!"  exclaimed  Phoebe,  rushing  to 
him.  "You  couldn't  object  to  such  a  duck  of  a  dog  as 
that,  father!" 

"If  the  little  creature  is  Mr.  Randolph's  pet,  he  is  cer 
tainly  welcome,"  replied  her  father,  his  natural  aversion 
from  dogs  completely  swallowed  up  in  warm  gratitude. 

"VVizzy  said  his  prayers  again  and  again,  and  deity  in 
the  form  of  Phoebe  answered  them  all  with  crisp  morsels 
of  his  favourite  biscuit. 

"Do  you  find  Phoebe  much  changed  since  when  she  was 
a  child?"  asked  Mr.  Nelson,  seeking  to  divert  the  conver 
sation  from  what  promised  to  be  too  emotional  a  topic  for 
this  daughter  who  resembled  ' '  neither  her  dear  mother  nor 
himself. ' ' 

"I  should  have  known  her  by  her  hair  anywhere,"  said 
Randolph,  smiling. 


WORLD'S-END  49 

"Yes,  I  am  told  that  she  has  an  unusually  fine  suit,"  ad 
mitted  her  parent.  "To  her  waist,  I  believe." 

"Below,"  laughed  Phoebe. 

"She  speaks,"  continued  the  old  gentleman  as  imper 
sonally  as  though  the  girl  had  been  a  family  portrait,  ' '  good 
English.  I  took  much  pains  with  her  when  she  was  little 
more  than  an  infant.  I  presume  that,  like  myself,  you  do 
not  object  to  a  Virginian  accent?" 

"I  love  it,"  said  Owen. 

"And  the  liquid  pronunciation  in  such  words  as  'cyar- 
pet, '  'cyar, '  'gyarden, ' — do  you  find  that  pleasant  to  the 
ear?" 

"Most  distinctly  pleasant,"  said  Owen. 

Phoebe  was  telling  Wizzy  in  dumb-show  that  she  found 
it  embarrassing  to  be  discussed  openly  in  this  way. 

Her  father  continued  with  impersonal  calm,  "I  am  glad 
to  hear  you  say  so.  If  you  will  kindly  hand  me  that  little 
lexicon  of  pronunciation — from  the  right-hand  shelves, 
sixth  row,  next  the  chimney, — I  will  show  you  something 
of  interest  in  regard  to  the  question.  The  volume  was 
compiled  by  my  grandfather." 

Owen  handed  him  the  volume,  and,  replacing  his  spec 
tacles,  discarded  for  the  sneeze  of  emotion,  the  old  gen 
tleman  turned  the  yellowed,  wrinkled  pages  until  he  found 
the  desired  word. 

"  'Garden,'  "  he  read  aloud,  "usually  pronounced  'gar 
den,'  but  the  elegant  insert  a  'y. '  ' 


X 

EN  saw  a  good  deal  of  Phoebe  and  her  father  during 
the  two  weeks  that  he  remained  at  World 's-End.  He 
found  the  old  scholar  both  pathetic  and  lovable,  while  the 
girl,  with  her  young  enthusiasms  and  ardent  will  to  live, 
seemed  to  him  singularly  winning. 

Just  before  leaving  World 's-End,  at  the  end  of  the  sec 
ond  week,  he  sent  over  a  pretty  sorrel  mare  called  "Kill- 
dee"  to  Nelson's  Gift,  with  a  note  for  Phoebe  tied  to  her 
bridle, — and  the  neat  little  Sowter  saddle  that  Richard 
had  used  when  a  boy  on  her  shining  back, — for  Phoebe, 
having  never  been  able  to  attain  to  the  luxury  of  a  side 
saddle,  rode  astride.  He  said  in  the  note  that  he  sent 
"Killdee"  because  she  was  such  a  perfect  match  for 


50  WORLD'S-END 

Phoebe's  hair,  and  because  Phoebe's  father  had  said  that 
he  might,  also,  last  but  really  first,  because  "Killdee"  was 
one  of  the  gentlest  and  wisest  of  her  sex. 

It  may  be  imagined  what  sort  of  ardent,  brimming-over 
letter  it  was  that  Phoebe  wrote  him  in  thanks  for  this  gift. 
It  went  astray,  and  he  did  not  receive  it  until  two  months 
later,  while  in  North  Carolina,  where  he  was  engaged  in 
settling  some  difficulties  which  had  arisen  in  one  of  the 
cotton  mills.  Pie  had  been  much  hurt  by  Phoebe's  sup 
posed  silence,  for  he  was  one  of  the  most  human  of  men, 
but  now,  as  he  read  her  affectionate,  enthusiastic  words, 
he  blamed  himself  roundly  for  not  having  guessed  the 
truth.  And  a  vision  of  Phoebe  herself,  with  her  loving, 
lovable  mouth  and  the  blue  flame  of  her  impassioned  eyes, 
rose  before  him, — and  he  could  hear  her  ardent  young 
voice  exclaiming  as  on  that  first  day,  "I  think  you're  just 
splendid,  Cousin  Owen!" 

A  letter  from  Sally,  by  the  same  post,  informed  him  that 
she  and  Richard  were  going  down  to  World 's-End  much 
earlier  this  year  than  usual,  as  Richard  found  it  impos 
sible  to  wTork  on  the  Chinese  Opera,  which  he  had  begun, 
in  the  noise  and  confusion  of  New  York.  They  would  be 
there,  she  thought,  about  the  middle  of  April.  The  con 
trast  between  Phoebe's  simple,  single-minded  letter  and  the 
thought  of  Richard  with  his  Chinese  opera  made  Owen 
smile. 

He  wrote  to  Sally  by  return  post,  a  letter  full  of  Phoebe 
and  her  unspoiled  charm.  He  said  at  the  end  of  his  let 
ter  that  he  thought  it  would  be  advisable  for  Sally  to  call 
at  Nelson's  Gift, — as,  among  other  things,  Phoebe  was 
Mary's  first  cousin  and  it  would  please  Mary  so  much, — 
and  then  that  after  doing  so,  if  Sally  would  invite  Phoebe 
to  spend  a  few  days  with  her  at  World  's-End,  it  would  give 
him  great  pleasure,  as  he  had  grown  very  fond  of  her  and 
was  sure  that  Sally  would  too. 

Sally  showed  this  epistle  to  Richard,  with  lips  folded 
inward. 

"A  young  country  girl  tete-a-tete  with  me  at  World 's- 
End!"  said  she. 

"A  young  girl  of  any  kind  at  Wo  rid 's-End — Good 
Lord!"  said  Richard. 

"If  only  your  uncle  wouldn't  thrust  his  ideas  down  one's 
throat  so,"  said  Sally,  who  was  apt  to  be  inelegant  when 
annoyed. 


WORLD'S-END  51 

"If  only  lie  would  realise  that  the  people  he  finds  eon- 
genial  to  him  may  not  be  congenial  to  others,"  said  her 
son.  "A  gushing  young  girl — and  I  with  Chinese  inter 
vals  to  master.  .  .  .  Oh,  Lord!"  he  groaned  again. 

"We  can  slip  out  of  it  somehow,"  said  his  mother 
firmly. 

"We  must,"  he  assented  as  firmly. 

"I  don't  feel  like  visiting  anyone  after  the  rush  I've  been 
in  this  winter.  I  should  think  Owen  might  realise  that." 

Richard  just  lifted  an  ironical  lip. 

"How  do  you  expect  a  Socialistic  sentimentalist  to  real 
ise  that  the  society  of  one's  fellow  beings  is  ever  anything 
but  a  boon?" 

""Well,"  replied  Sally,  "be  that  as  it  may,  I  simply  re 
fuse  to  have  my  first  spring  days  at  World 's-End  utterly 
spoiled  by  having  a  young  country  miss  on  my  mind  from 
morning  till  night.  I  shall  tell  Owen  that  I  am  too  abso 
lutely  worn  out.  Of  course  we  shall  have  to  put  up  with 
her  when  Mary  comes. ' ' 

"Oh,  I'll  slip  oil  to  Newport  or  somewhere,"  said  Rich 
ard  cheerfully,  and  his  mother  regarded  him  fleetingly, 
with  an  inscrutable  expression  which  he  did  not  observe. 

They  went  down  to  World  's-End.  together  a  few  days 
later, — World 's-End,  which  at  this  season  of  the  year  re 
sembled  "La  Foret  dcs  Lilas"  of  Perrault's  fairy  tale,  all 
embowered  as  it  was  in  swaying  plumes  of  mauve  and 
white.  The  red-bud  was  out  in  fields  and  woods  and  the 
orioles  and  wood-doves  were  calling  from  every  glade  and 
dingle.  The  periwinkle,  too,  blue  and  innocent  as  chil 
dren's  eyes,  filled  the  hollows  with  its  wistful  loveliness. 
And  through  all  and  over  all  was  that  exquisite,  elusive 
perfume  of  spring,  like  the  perfume  that  might  be  wafted 
from  the  warm  draperies  and  flying  hair  of  a  hamadryad. 

Sally's  face  took  on  an  unwonted  softness  as  she  and 
Richard  drove  through  the  grounds  together. 

"Ah!  .  .  .  I  do  love  it,"  she  breathed. 

She  put  her  hand  on  her  son's  hand. 

"Some  day,"  she  said,  "it  will  be  yours.  ..." 

"It  is  a  rare  old  place,"  he  admitted,  returning  slightly 
the  pressure  of  her  fingers.  "Yes  .  .  .  here  I  can  finish 
my  Chinese  opera." 

A  week  went  by  and,  having  wound  himself  up  in  a  skein 
of  the  dissonances  of  Cathay,  Richard  mounted  "El 
Borak"  and  went  for  a  long  ride. 


52  WORLD'S-END 

The  servants  had  been  much  mystified  as  to  the  work 
which  kept  Richard  strumming  behind  closed  doors  for 
many  hours  a  day  on  a  strange  instrument  which  gave 
forth  a  sound  that  recalled  both  banjo  and  guitar,  as  a 
mule  recalls  horse  and  ass,  yet  is  neither. 

"He'll  make  hisse'f  sick  ef  he  donV  take  keer,"  Aunt 
Polly,  the  cook,  had  remarked  only  that  morning  in  the 
kitchen.  "Keepin'  hisse'f  shet  up  'thout  so  much  ez  a 
mou'ful  of  fresh  air.  What  he  doin'  in  dat  room  makin' 
dem  outlandish  noises  anyhow,  Joe?" 

Joe,  her  youngest  son,  one  of  twelve,  who  looked  after 
Richard  when  he  was  at  World  's-End,  said  that  ' '  Mr. 
Richard  done  took  to  pickin'  on  some  cu'yous  sorter  banjo 
what  wa'nt  a  banjo,  an'  what  sounded  outer  fix  tuh  Mm." 

"Well  .  .  .  Gawd  be  praised!"  said  Aunt  Polly  when 
she  heard  that  he  had  ordered  his  horse.  "Maybe  dee 
Lawd's  done  wo'  him  out  wid  dat  folishness,  an'  now  he 
gwine  ack  like  urrer  Chrishuns  once  mo'.  I  sho'  is  sorry 
fo'  Miss  Sally,  an'  her  so  peert  an'  nachul-actin',  hevin'  a 
son  what  acks  so  flightified  ez  Mr.  Richard.  I  bleeves  he 
does  it  a-purpose.  I  clon't  'bleeve  he  cnjijs  hisse'f  pickin' 
tuh  hisse'f  all  day  long  an'  part  o'  dee  night  lak  dat. 
Well — glory  be.  Ridin'll  do  him  a  chance  o'  good.  Ef 
dat  mean  mar'  o'  his'n  d'  jes'  th'o'  him,  dat  'ould  do  him 
still  mo'  good.  You  hear  me!  G'long,  Joe — for  Jeeze' 
sake  git  him  on  dat  haAvse  while  he  in  de  humour. ' ' 

Borak  was  fresh,  and  Richard  rode  her  far  and  fast 
without  particularly  noting  where  the  road  was  leading 
him.  When  he  reined  in  finally  it  was  at  the  top  of  a  hill 
strewn  with  the  gold  patines  of  dandelions,  and  at  the  bot 
tom  in  a  ford  of  the  Green  Flower  river  a  girl  was  water 
ing  her  horse.  It  was  Phoebe  on  Killdee,  and  what 
caught  Richard's  eye,  of  course,  was  that  remarkable  hair 
of  hers — it  blazed  out  in  a  great,  glowing  lump  at  the  back 
of  her  black  straw  hat  and  seemed  to  be  on  fire  in  the  sun 
light. 

Richard  said  to  himself : 

"A  woman  with  such  hair  must  have  charm."  It 
dimmed  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Pierce-Hull's  fleece  of  gold 
as  a  torch  pales  a  candle. 

The  girl  here  looked  up,  and  smiled  frankly.  Her  mare 
had  finished  drinking  and  was  now  blowing  the  water  play 
fully  through  her  nostrils,  as  horses  like  to  do  in  running 
streams. 


WOKLD'S-END  53 

"Mind  how  you  come  down  that  hill,"  she  called  out 
to  him.  "There's  a  broken  drain-pipe  on  the  left." 

She  was  riding  astride,  he  now  noted,  and  her  slim 
young  shape,  in  its  neatly  cut  coat  of  whip-cord  (she 
had  made  it  herself  from  a  pattern  lent  by  an  English 
friend),  was  charmingly  boylike  and  nymphlike  in  one. 
This  combination  of  contrasts  was  further  pleasing  to 
Richard. 

"Thank  you  .  .  ."he  called  back  as  he  descended  gin 
gerly.  "I'm  very  much  obliged  ...  I  should  have  been 
in  it  in  another  moment.  ..." 

"It's  downright  wicked,"  said  the  girl,  "the  way  they 
leave  the  roads  in  this  county." 

' '  What  county  am  I  in,  please  1 ' ' 

"Queen  Caroline. — Didn't  you  know?" 

"No — I  came  from  World 's-End.  I  thought  I  was  still 
in  Buckf astleigh. " 

"From  World  's-End?"  The  girl's  face  lighted  up. 
"Then,"  she  cried  after  a  little  pause,  "you  must  be  Rich 
ard  Bryce. " 

Richard  bowed  over  Borak's  coal-black  crest.  "I  am," 
he  said,  "and,  if  I  may  ask,  you  ...  ?" 

"I  am  Phoebe  Nelson,"  said  the  girl.  "I  am  so  glad  to 
know  you.  Your  Uncle  Owen  is  my  cousin." 

"Then  I'm  your  cousin,  too." 

"Five  times  removed,"  said  Phoebe,  laughing. 

He  smiled,  keeping  his  steady  black  eyes  on  hers.  This 
smile  was  not  like  Owen 's.  There  was  in  it  something.  .  .  . 
She  quickened  sweetly  in  response,  withdrawing  her  eyes 
gently  and  looking  past  him  up  at  the  blue  April  sky  now 
strewn  with  little  silver  shells  of  cloud.  As  she  lifted  her 
chin  in  doing  so  he  saw  the  pulses  in  her  white  throat 
beating  softly  like  the  pulses  in  the  downy  body  of  a  white 
moth  held  by  the  wings. 

"I  think  we're  going  to  have  rain,"  she  said. 

"I  shottld  like  very  much  to  call  at  Nelson's  Gift,— if 
you  will  allow  me,"  said  Richard.  "We  have  been  here  a 
week.  My  mother  came  earlier  this  year  because  she  was 
so  tired  from,  her  winter  in  New  York.  She's  quite  done 
up,  or  she  would  have  called  on  you  before  this. " 

"The  idea!"  exclaimed  Phoebe,  startled.  "A  girl  like 
me  !  Why  should  she  ? " 

From  what  she  had  heard,  she  was  distinctly  in  awe  of 
Sally. 


54  WORLD'S-END 

"But,"  continued  Richard  in  his  suave  voice,  "if  you 
will  let  me  I  will  call  in  her  place." 

"I'm  sure  that  father  will  be  very  glad,"  said  Phoebe 
with  unwonted  primness,  because  her  heart  was  beating  a 
little  fast. 

' '  Then — may  I  come  tomorrow  ? ' '  asked  Richard. 

"Of  course,"  said  Phoebe. 

But  suddenly  a  little  nymphean  panic  overtook  her. 
"  It 's  time  for  father 's  wine.  ...  I  '11  be  late.  ...  I  mu;rt 
go  now,"  she  murmured.  "Good-bye." 

She  turned  Killdee's  head,  and  set  off  at  a  canter. 

"Good-bye  .  .  .  till  tomorrow."  Richard  called  after 
her. 

It  was  he.  .  .  .  It  was  Tie  .  .  .  at  last!  .  .  .  Could  there 
be  any  doubt,  when  they  were  both  young,  and  his  hair 
was  dark  while  hers  was  fair? — "What  a  young  prince,  to 
come  riding  suddenly  up  to  her  out  of  the  spring  morn 
ing! — How  kindly  were  the  gods  to  set  all  the  scene  so 
prettily — blossoms,  birds,  a  breeze  of  Eden,  clouds  like 
silver  shells,  a  sky  to  match  her  own  eyes ! — And  his  eyes — 
so  black,  so  masterful — how  they  had  seemed  to  dive  down 
within  her,  and  touch  a  little  nerve  somewhere  that  was 
still  thrilling  sweetly.  Oh,  it  was  he  beyond  all  manner 
of  doubt! — They  did  not  love  yet,  but  love  had  touched 
them.  The  god  had  stood  with  a  wing  over  the  shoulders 
of  each,  and  eyes  full  of  gentle  laughter,  knowing  well 
what  they  only  dimly  felt  as  yet.  Oh,  beautiful,  delirious 
chance,  that  had  brought  her  to  Green  Flower  ford  that 
morning!  Yet  it  was  not  chance — she  felt  that  she  blas 
phemed — only  loving  fate,  on  sandals  bound  with  roses, 
could  have  led  her  thither. 

And  what  a  rich  voice  he  had,  and  what  charmingly  dif 
ferent  hands  from  anyone  else  in  the  world ! — And  his 
mouth  when  he  smiled — how  wonderful!  Those  hands 
would  touch  her  own  some  day — that  mouth — she  let 
the  reins  on  "Killdee's"  sagacious  neck  and  hid  her 
glowing  face  in  her  hands. — No  more  forever  was  the 
dread  of  old-maidhood  to  haunt  her  pillow — fairy  mar 
riage  bells  rang  at  her  from  every  flower.  She  longed  in 
that  moment  for  a  tangible  God,  that  she  might  embrace 
his  knees  and  kiss  the  hem  of  His  garment.  Tomorrow 
he  was  coming,  bringing  with  him  the  wild  honey  of 
romance. 

And   Richard,   riding   home   on    Borak,    now   mincing 


WORLD'S -END  55 

pettishly,  her  black  chest  specked  with  foam,  was  think 
ing: — 

"What  that  little  wood-nymph  has  to  learn!  To  teach 
her — some  things — would  be  diverting.  Her  face  is  a  psy 
chological  contradiction.  The  eyes  are  like  pretty  nuns  in 
blue  habits,  praying  at  their  windows,  while  her  mouth  is 
like  a  laughing  amourcuse  in  the  street  below.  I  shall 
tell  her  that  some  clay.  ...  It  will  be  interesting  to  watch 
her  expression  and  to  hear  what  she  will  say, — that  is,  if 
she  understands  at  all." 

lie  did  not  mean  to  tell  Sally  of  this  encounter.  He 
thought  it  unnecessary.  It  would  only  ruffle  his  mother 
and  cause  her  to  make  fretful  remarks.  There  would  be 
quite  time  enough  for  such  disclosures  after  he  had  been  to 
Nelson's  Gift.  Then  he  could  easily  persuade  his  mother  to 
call.  He  knew  just  the  amount  of  sulkiness  needed  in  him 
self  to  break  down  the  sulkiness  in  her.  One  day  of  aloof 
and  punctilious  civility  on  his  part  and  she  would  call  at 
Nelson's  Gift. 

If  he  found  this  little  wood-nymph  .really  diverting  on 
further  acquaintance,  it  was  better  that  he  should  see  her 
quite  frankl}?-.  One  call  from  Sally,  one  from  Phoebe, — 
then  things  would  remain  comfortably  conventional,  and,  he 
could  drop  in  at  Nelson's  Gift  whenever  it  amused  him 
to  do  so.  He  knew  beyond  question  that  his  mother  and 
Phoebe  would  never  be  congenial.  Those  two  visits  would 
put  things  on  a  proper  basis,  and  afterward  it  would  be 
quite  unnecessary  that  he  should  report  to  his  mother  every 
time  that  he  saw  Phoebe.  She  had  such  morbid  ideas  about 
his  getting  married  too  young  and  interfering  with  his 
genius.  As  if  he  had  not  reiterated  to  fatigue  his  absolute 
abhorrence  of  being  bound  in  any  way.  He  had  even  in- 
v'/uted  a  saying  once  to  soothe  her,  but  which  had  only 
shocked  without  convincing.  He  had  said  to  her  during 
cue  of  her  anxious  appeals  to  him  not  to  marry  until  he 
was  at  least  thirty-live : 

' '  My  dear  mother,  why  worry  ? — I  do  not  intend  to  marry 
at  any  age.  The  marriage-bed  is  the  death-bed  of  art." 


56  WORLD'S-EXD 


XI 

T>  ICHARD  started  for  Nelson's  Gift  the  next  morning  at 
•*•*'  nine  o'clock.  This  unusual  departure  from  his  late 
routine  called  forth  no  comment  on  his  mother's  part — 
either  verbal  or  mental,  for  Eichard's  days  were  always 
ordered  or  rather  disordered  by  whim — the  presiding  deity 
of  the  eccentrically  artistic. 

He  himself  wondered  if  he  might  not  be  a  little  early, 
but  then  he  reflected  that  for  all  her  pure  white  cheeks 
Phoebe  was  yet  a  rustic  maiden  and  probably  rose  early. 
He  need  have  given  himself  no  concern:  she  had  been  up 
and  abroad,  fresh  as  from  a  bath  of  dew,  since  the  first  bird 
piped  in  the  lilacs  under  her  window, — ready  and  sweetly 
palpitating  with  expectancy,  like  Eos  in  her  dawn-hued 
robe  of  cloud,  awaiting  the  bright  rising  of  Orion.  And 
Phoebe's  frock,  the  prettiest  she  had,  though  old,  might 
well  have  been  woven  of  mauve  clouds,  so  soft  and  dim 
was  it  from  many  \vashings.  It  was  cut  in  the  scant,  short- 
waisted  fashion  of  the  year  before,  and  girdled  close  under 
her  young  breast  with  a  fold  of  the  same  filmy  stuff. 
Around  her  throat,  white  and  sweet  as  manna,  she  had, 
after  much  deliberation,  fastened  a  thread  of  gold  from 
which  hung  a  tiny  miniature  of  her  mother  set  in  ame 
thysts.  She  wanted  her  mother's  picture  on  her  breast, 
this  wonderful  day,  since  she  herself  could  not  have  that 
mother's  breast  to  lean  on.  Besides,  the  amethysts  went 
so  prettily  with  her  gown  and  the  mauve  ribbon  which 
she  had  drawn  through  her  sorrel  hair. 

Lily,  the  housemaid,  Aunt  Patty's  blue-black  daughter, 
came  early  to  tell  her  that  Mr.  Nelson  was  suffering  from 
a  violent ' '  crick ' '  in  his  neck.  She  had  given  him  his  early 
cup  of  coffee,  into  which  she  put  a  tablespoonful  of  peach 
brandy,  and  then  surrounding  him  with  all  the  parapher 
nalia  of  research,  and  leaving  a  small  silver  bell  beside  him, 
joyfully  descended  to  the  little  garden  that  had  been  spe 
cially  laid  out  for  her  mother, — her  own  maiden  for  the 
rest  of  the  paradisaical  morning. 

She  took  with  her  a  copy  of  Tennyson  and  her  mother 's 
Bible.  It  was  meet,  she  thought,  that  she  should  begin 
this  day  by  reading  a  little  in  her  mother's  Bible. 

Within  a  ring  of  dim  blue  hyacinths,  in  the  grassy  centre 
of  the  quaint  plot  with  its  borders  of  periwinkle,  she 


WOKLD'S-EXD  57 

seated  herself  beside  the  little  pedestal  of  old,  mossy  marble, 
crowned  by  a  bronze  basket,  now  blue  with  wild  violets. 
Reverently  she  knelt,  kissed  the  worn  little  volume  that 
smelt  of  must  and  pressed  flowers,  and  opened  it  at  random. 
She  opened  at  a  place  marked  by  a  little  gilt-edged  i  card 
on  which  was  a  tiny  coloured  print  of  the  sun  rising  yellow 
in  a  pink  sky,  and  underneath  some  verses  in  diamond 
type.  A  pensive  tenderness  rushed  over  her.  She  went 
back,  back  as  in  a  swing  of  flowers,  to  the  days  when  she 
used  to  repeat  these  verses  by  heart,  leaning  on  her  mother's 
breast.  She  read  the  first  one  over  now,  holding  her 
mother's  picture  to  her  lips  as  she  did  so. 

' '  The  morning  bright,  with  rosy  light, 

Hath  waked  me  from  my  sleep! 
Father,  I  own,  Thy  care  alone, 
Thy  little-one  doth  keep.'' 

' '  Ah,  I  do  want  to  be  very,  very  good, ' '  thought  Phoebe, 
sweet  tears  filling  her  eyes.  ' '  It 's  the  only  way  I  can  thank 
God  for  giving  me  so  much  happiness." 

She  turned  another  leaf.  Two  rosebuds,  once  white,  now 
a  wan  yellow,  lay  flattened  within  a  piece  of  old-fashioned 
letter-paper.  On  this  was  inscribed,  in  a  delicate,  "run 
ning  ' '  hand,  ' '  Flowers  from  my  little  Phoebe 's  christening 
nosegay. ' ' 

Phoebe  kissed  that,  too,  and  the  tears  brimmed  over.  She 
was  glad  that  she  had  never  carefully  examined  her 
mother's  Bible  until  today.  All  these  touching  memen 
toes  were  like  messengers  who  spoke  clearly  in  a  still,  small 
voice  that  seemed  to  come  from  heaven.  She  turned  more 
pages,  forgetting  to  read  the  sacred  text  in  her  absorption 
with  words,  to  her,  as  sacred.  Now  it  wTas  a  prayer  she 
found.  On  the  back  of  the  sheet  was  written :  "  To  be  de 
stroyed  unread  at  my  death." 

"Ah,  but  she  would  w^ant  me  to  read  it,"  thought 
Phoebe,  and  she  unfolded  the  thin  sheet. 

"'Dear  Heavenly  Father,'"  she  read,  "'I  am  very 
tired  of  well-doing,  and  my  feet  falter,  and  I  faint  by  the 
wayside.  Oh,  give  me  strength  to  conquer,  and  to  live 
so  that  I  may  bring  up  my  precious  baby  to  be  Thy  child. 
Fill  me  with  noble  and  unselfish  thoughts  and  purposes 
for  her  sake.  Cast  out  of  me  all  care  for  self.  Let  my 
dear  husband  and  my  little  child  have  reason  to  be  glad 


58  WORLD'S-END 

that  I  have  lived.  Hedge  up  my  way  with  thorns  from 
all  wrongdoing, — and  keep  my  precious  baby  from  evil 
in  thought,  word  and  deed  all  her  life  long.  May  she 
live  to  love  and  bless  her  mother, — and  to  serve  Thee  truly 
all  the  days  of  her  life.  Oh,  keep  her  pure  of  heart  so 
that  she  may  one  day  see  Thee.  For  Jesus'  dear  sake. 
Amen. ' 

"My  sweet,  darling  mother,"  murmured  the  girl,  now 
weeping  outright.  ' '  I  will  always,  always  do  as  you  would 
wish  me  to ! "  She  folded  the  touching  prayer  and  put  it 
in  her  bosom.  Then  came  an  envelope  in  which  Phoebe 
found  her  christening-ribbons,  and  a  little  marker  printed 
with  coloured  crayons  by  her  own  chubby  fingers  when 
she  was  five  years  old.  Then  an  orange  blossom  from  her 
mother's  bridal  wreath,  some  little  religious  verses  cut 
from  weekly  papers,  and  a  packet  of  written  records  of  her 
own  childish  sayings  and  doings.  She  read  some  of  them, 
smiling  now  through  her  fast-drying  tears:— 

' '  '  My  dear,  droll  baby  said  to  me  this  morning, ' '  Mother, 
do  kitties  hatch  eggs  ?  Well,  where  do  they  find  their  kit 
ties?  Do  they  fish  for  them?" 

"  'Yesterday,  just  after  Thomas  had  read  morning  pray 
ers,  she  said  to  him :  "Father,  dear,  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't 
pray  so  much  about  '  the  lusts  of  the  flesh. '  ' ' 

"  'I  sent  her  over  Tuesday  last  to  spend  the  day  with 
Frances  Macon's  little  girls  and  their  cousins,  and  when 
she  came  back  I  said,  "Phoebe,  which  of  all  your  little 
friends  do  you  love  the  best?"  She  thought  a  while, 
pulling  her  pretty  gold  curls  through  her  mouth  in 
a  way  she  has,  and  then  she  said:  "Well,  I  love  Molly 
Page  quite  much,  but  her  tears  come  too  easily.  I  be 
lieve  I  love  myself  best,  because  my  tears  don't  come  so 
easily!"  '  ': 

Phoebe  broke  into  a  little  ripple  of  laughter  over  this 
last. 

"Oh,  what  a  vain  little  thing  I  was!"  she  reflected,  then 
thought  ruefully,  "Perhaps  I'm  just  as  vain  still.  I  was 
a  whole  hour  dressing  and  doing  my  hair  over  and  over 
this  morning." 

But  as  she  recalled  why  it  was  that  she  had  taken  so 
long,  and  been  so  fastidious  over  her  toilet,  an  April  pink 
clouded  her  clear  face  to  the  temples.  She  closed  the 
Bible  again,  having  quite  forgotten  to  read  any  of  its 
scriptures,  and,  tying  about  it  once  more  the  piece  of  faded 


WORLD'3-END  50 

ribbon  which  kept  the  flowers  and  slips  of  paper  from 
falling  out,  hid  it  in  a  bed  of  irises  nearby. 

It  was  just  as  well.  Nothing  in  the  sacred  volume  would 
have  suited  her  nicod  that  morning  except  perhaps  cer- 
tnin  lovely  lines  from  the  less  sensual  portion  of  the  Song 
of  Songs,  but  this  her  father  had  particularly  requested 
her  never  to  read  until  she  was  a  mature  and  wedded 
woman.  How  Phoebe  would  have  adored  them, — the  im 
mortal  words  in  which  love  and  spring  come  triumphing 
hand  in  hand:  "3Iy  beloved  spake,  and  said  unto  me, 
Rise  up,  my  lore,  my  fair  one,  and  come  away.  For 
lo!  the  winter  is  past,  the  rain  is  over  and  gone;  the  j'owers 
appear  on  the  earth;  the  time  of  the  singing  of  lirds  is 
come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  our  land.  The 
fig-tree  puttcth  /or/7/,  her  green  leaves,  and  the  vines  u-ith 
the  tender  grape  give  a  good  smell,  Arise,  my  love,  my 
fair  one,  and  come  away." 

But,  knowing  nothing  of  the  lovely  and  appropriate 
words  which  she  had  put  away  among  the  iris  leaves,  she 
opened  her  mother's  little  blue-and-silver  "Tennyson"  and 
began  reading  "Maud." 

.  .  .  "Birds  in  the  High  Hall  garden  calling, 

Maud,  Maud,  Maud.  ..." 

"When  she  came  to  this,  Phoebe  let  the  book  drop  upon  her 
knees. 

"If  only  dear  mother  and  father  hadn't  given  me  such 
a  plain,  old-fashioned  name ! ' '  she  thought  regretfully.  The 
"Phoebe-bird"  might  go  on  calling  her  name  in  the  love 
liest  garden,  but  no  one  would  ever  think  of  making  a  poem 
out  of  it. — Here  she  heard  a  conversational  "Caw,"  and, 
glancing  up,  saw  that  "Jimmy  Toots,"  her  tame  crow,  was 
progressing  towards  her  down  the  garden  path,  in  hops, 
punctuated  by  sly  pauses.  He  cocked  his  head  when  she 
looked  up,  and  fixed  a  sly,  teasing  eye  of  brass  upon  her. 

"Go  away,  Jimmy  Toots,"  said  Phoebe  severely.  "I 
don 't  want  you  this  morning. ' ' 

"Caw!"  he  responded,  unruffled,  and  fluttered  straight 
to  her  shoulder,  for  he  was  an  amiable  if  sardonic  fowl. 

"Oh,  Jimmy  Toots, — go  away!"  pleaded  Phoebe,  trying 
to  take  him  down.  "You're  like  a  blot  on  a  love-letter!" 

But  Jimmy  clung  with  his  strong  claws  to  her  shoulder, 
tickling  her  through  the  thin  muslin,  and  rocking  back  and 
forth  with  spread  wings  to  maintain  his  balance  as  she 
shrugged  to  dislodge  him. 


60  WORLD'S-EX  D 

"Oh,  you  tiresome,  tiresome  old  thing!"  said  Phoebe, 
laughing  in  spite  of  herself,  but  really  vexed  at  what  she 
felt  to  be  the  jarring  note  of  the  coal-black  Jimmy  in  the 
fresh  fairness  of  the  morning.  Had  she  been  a  pagan 
maiden,  she  would  have  offered  a  pair  of  milk-white  doves, 
with  coral  feet  and  eyes,  to  Venus, — but  wrhat  was  one  to 
do  with  a  big,  satanic  crow  that  spoiled  one's  day  dreams, 
and  could  only  appropriately  have  been  laid  on  the  altar 
of  Pluto  ? 

And,  of  course,  it  was  at  this  moment  that  Richard  came 
into  the  garden. 

Phoebe  started  to  her  feet,  and  Jimmy  Toots,  again 
whirring  wild  wings  to  keep  his  perch  under  this  vio 
lent  oscillation,  beat  down  a  strand  of  her  bright  hair. 
It  netted  his  jetty  breast  as  with  a  skein  of  flame, 
and  Richard  found  delightful  this  picture  of  a  young 
girl  in  an  April  garden,  with  a  bird  of  ill  omen  on  her 
shoulder. 

"Don't  take  him  down  .  .  .  please,"  he  said,  as  Phoebe 
strove  with  both  hands  to  pull  " Jimmy"  from  his  post, 
without  tearing  her  frock. 

"If  it  had  been  a  ring-dove,  all  would  have  been  spoiled," 
he  added,  cryptically  enough  to  Phoebe's  ears. 

She  stood  quite  still  when  he  had  spoken,  leaving  Jimmy 
conqueror — with  her  eyes  showing  in  a  blue  line  between 
her  short,  black  lashes,  gathered  together  as  always  wiien 
she  smiled,  and  "two  little  blushes"  in  her  clear  cheeks 
like  Mary  of  Ballylee. 

"She  is,"  thought  Richard,  "far  better  this  way  than 
on  horseback.  That  clinging  gown  exactly  suits  her  type. 
She  is  long  and  lissome  like  a  Botticelli.  Her  hair,  as  well 
as  her  mouth,  is  the  hair  of  a  born  amour  euse.  And  that 
crow  is  a  master-touch.  "Wilde  may  say  what  he  will; — 
Nature  outdoes  us  all  when  she  chooses  to  be  artistic." 
Aloud  he  said : 

"You  with  that  crow  are  like  a  poem  by  Baudelaire." 

Enchanted  by  being  compared  to  a  poem,  though  the 
name  of  Baudelaire  was  a  mere  musical  sound  to  her, 
Phoebe  laughed  softly  and  said: 

"I  can't  imagine  a  crow  in  a  poem." 

"  'The  Raven'?"  suggested  Richard  indulgently. 

"Oh,  but  a  raven  is  different — there  is  something  grim 

and  strange  about  a  raven,  but  a  crow! "  she  broke 

off  and,  laughing,  quoted  the  old  jingle: 


WORLD'S-END  61 

"  'Stealing  corn  has  been  their  trade, 
Ever  since  the  world  was  made.'  ' 

"All  the  same,"  said  Richard,  "that  crow  against  your 
wonderful  hair  strikes  the  sinister  note  that  all  beauty 
should  have  to  be  complete." 

This  was  not  only  Greek  to  Phoebe,  but  Hebrew,  Sans 
krit,  Choctaw.  She  smiled  again,  putting  up  her  hand  to 
touch  "Jimmy  Toots"  quite  gently,  now  that  Richard  had 
praised  him,  then  suddenly,  in  response  to  Richard's  look, 
which  was  again  serious,  almost  brooding,  she  ceased  to 
smile  and  gave  him  back  his  glance  like  a  clear  mirror,  her 
eyes  deepening  and  growing  wistful. 

Some  lines  of  Baudelaire,  whom  the  crow  still  kept  in 
Richard 's  thought,  occurred  to  him. 

"...  dcs  ycux  obscurs,  profonds  et  vastes, 
Comme  toi,  Nuit  immense,  cclaires  comme  toil 
Leur  fetix  sont  ces  penscrs  d' Amour,  mele  de  Foi, 
Qui  petillent  au  fond,  voluptueux  ou  cliastes." 

"I'm  so  sorry  that  father's  ill  today  and  won't  be  able 
to  see  you,"  said  Phoebe,  from  sheer  shyness,  breaking  a 
silence  wonderful  to  her,  wherein  they  seemed  to  be  gazing 
at  each  other's  very  souls. 

"Yes.  ...     I  am  sorry,  too,"  agreed  Richard  politely. 

Here  Jimmy  Toots,  who  had  been  for  some  time  eyeing 
the  head  of  an  amber  hairpin  that  gleamed  temptingly  in 
the  sunshine,  made  a  skilful  dab  at  it  with  his  strong 
beak,  and,  withdrawing  it  triumphantly,  fled  as  fast  as 
he  could  with  his  clipped  wing  to  the  shelter  of  the  lilacs. 

Even  in  this  thrilling  hour,  so  great  a  favourite  was 
the  amber  hairpin  Math  Phoebe,  that  she  made  an  instinctive 
dart  after  the  bird,  and  in  so  doing  struck  the  little  volume 
of  Tennyson  into  view  from  among  the  Basses. 

Richard  stooped  and  lifted  it.  He  ranked  Tennyson  and 
Longfellow  together,  and  of  course  she  would  read  both 
poets.  They  were  the  pabulum  of  young  girls. 

"Don't  you  admire  Tennyson?"  asked  Phoebe  timidly, 
turning  from  her  useless  pursuit  of  Jimmy  Toots. 

"He's  written  asiomatically  melodic  lines,"  admitted 
Richard  in  concession  to  her  charming  naivete.  "I  don't 
care  for  the  celebrated  'moaning  doves  and  murmuring 
bees'  myself.  I  believe  that  the  only  two  poems  which 


62  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

seem  to  me  to  have  any  spontaneous  life  in  them  he  himself 
condemned  as  ...  er  ..."  He  hesitated,  searching  in  his 
mind  for  an  adjective  suited  to  express  his  meaning  to  a 
young  girl.  "As  too  Swinburnian, "  he  concluded. 

Phoebe  looked  eagerly  at  the  hook  whose  leaves  he  was 
turning,  then  up  at  his  lowered  lids,  then  she  said  shyly : 

"What  are  they?    I  wonder  if  I  know  them." 

"But  you  must,  if  you  are  so  fond  of  Tennyson." 

Phoebe  flushed  a  little. 

"I  don't  read  much  poetry  at  a  time,"  she  said.  "I 
haven 't  read  nearly  all  of  that  book.  Only  '  Maud '  and  the 
'Idylls  of  the  King,'  and  'The  May  Queen,'  and  a  few 
others." 

"You've  never  read  'CEnone'  and  'Fatima'?" 

"No,"  said  Phoebe  sadly.  Here  was  she,  disappointing 
the  prince  on  the  very  first  day  that  he  had  entered  her 
garden.  Wretched  girl!  she  would  read  poetry  by  the 
hour,  by  the  ell  from  this  day  forward. 

Richard  looked  at  her  downcast  face,  and  a  sudden  in 
spiration  came  to  him,  caused  by  the  scientific  curiosity  of 
the  psychological  vivisector. 

"  If  I  may  sit  here  on  the  grass  beside  you, ' '  he  said,  ' '  I 
will  read  them  to  you  if  you  like. ' ' 

If  she  liked! — Phoebe  looked  at  him  with  such  a  smile 
that  words  were  not  needed,  and  made  room  for  him  within 
the  ring  of  hyacinths.  Now  he  was  so  near  her  that  she 
could  note  the  fine  grain  of  the  skin  on  his  temple,  and 
get  a  whiff  of  the  peaty  scent  from  his  coat  of  grey  Scotch 
homespun. 

"I  shall  only  read  you  a  few  lines  from  'CEnone,'  "  he 
said,  "the  whole  is  rather  tiresome.  But  I'll  give  you  all 
of  'Fatima' — it's  rather  charming." 

The  extract  from  ' '  CEnone ' '  ended  with  the  lines : 


"Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my  arms 
Were  wound  about  thce,  and  my  hot  lips  prest 
Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick- falling  dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  autumn  rains 
Flash  in  the  whirling  pool  of  Simois." 


To  Phoebe  it  was  almost  as  if  Richard 's  lips  brushed  hers 
in  the  reading  of  those  words.  She  did  not  flush,  but  grew 
even  whiter  than  was  the  nature  of  her  magnolia  skin,  and 
kept  her  eyes  upon  her  clasped  hands.  The  little  pulse  of 


WORLD'S-END  63 

her  soft  throat,  that  Eichard  had  noted  yesterday,  beat  very 
fast. 

He  just  glanced  at  her  and  went  on  to  "Fatima." 

"Last  night  when  some  one  spoke  his  name, 
From  my  swift  blood  that  went  and  came, 
A  thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 
Were  shivered  in  my  narrow  frame. 
O  love,  O  fire!  once  he  drew 
With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul  through 
My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  mounts  the  hill  I  know 

He  cometh  quickly:    from  below 

Sweet  gales  as  from  deep  gardens  bloio — 

(Richard's  voice  made  the  "deep  gardens"  seem  this 
garden.) 

Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 

And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light, 

My  heart,  pierced  through  with  fierce  delight, 

Bursts  into  blossoms  in  his  sight." 

When  he  looked  at  the  girl  this  time  her  hands  were  quiv 
ering  on  her  knee  and  her  whole  throat  and  face  one  soft 
wave  of  rose. 

"Ah,  little  amoureuse,"  thought  Richard,  "what  coun 
try  duffer  will  clang  out  his  'ragtime'  fancies  on  your  sensi 
tive  chords?" 

But  he  had  no  idea  of  playing  "Paris"  to  Phoebe's 
"CEnone. "  How  to  change  this  mood  only  too  easily 
evoked? — Young  girls  were  dangerous  things  to  tamper 
with,  and  Phoebe  did  not  even  stir  his  cool  senses,  only 
roused  in  him  that  inevitable  and  cruel  curiosity  of  the 
initiate,  as  regards  the  promising  neophyte. 

"I  write  verse  myself,"  he  now  said  in  a  matter-of-fact 
voice,  closing  Tennyson  and  flinging  him  a  yard  away,  as 
though  putting  such  a  banal  poet  at  his  proper  distance. 
"You  are  such  a  wonderful  listener — so  simpatica — that  I 
wonder  if  you  would  let  me  read  you  some  of  mine  one 
day?" 

//  she  would  let  him  read  some  of  his  very  own  poetry 
to  her! — That  poetry  which  must  be  so  much  more  won 
derful  than  Tennyson's,  or  even  Browning's,  of  which  she 
had  heard  but  had  not  read.  "Oh,  would  you, — really?" 


64  WORLD'S-END 

she  said,  and  her  parted  lips  stayed  open,  and  the  colour 
swept  up  again  into  her  face. 

Richard  said  that  he  would  bring  over  his  poems  in  a 
day  or  two  if  she  would  allow  him,  and  he  began  telling 
her  about  "The  Daughter  of  Ypocras. " 

"Oh,"  cried  Phoebe,  throbbing  with  the  joy  of  finding 
that  one  atom,  at  least,  of  what  must  be  his  universal  knowl 
edge  she  shared  with  him.  "I  know! — I  read  all  about  it  in 
'  Sir  John  Mandeville  's  Travels. '  That  must  make  a  beau 
tiful  poem." 

Richard  was  both  astonished  and  pleased  to  hear  of  her 
acquaintance  with  his  abstruse  subject.  "When  he  told  her 
that  she  was  the  only  person  among  those  he  knew  who  had 
ever  heard  of  the  daughter  of  Ypocras  her  delight  was 
lovely.  Even  Richard  was  touched  by  it.  Something  in 
his  brittle,  artificial  nature  stirred  delicately. 

"When  she  looks  like  that  one  has  the  most  primitive 
desire  to  kiss  her,"  he  thought,  amused  at  his  own  banality, 
as  of  a  spring-bewitched  Tom,  Dick  or  Harry. 

He  went  on  to  tell  her  that  he  was  also  sculptor  and 
painter  as  well  as  poet  and  a  look  of  awe  came  into  her 
eyes; — it  changed  her  from  amoureuse  to  devotee,  and 
made  her  still  more  appealing  to  Richard,  whose  nature 
craved  adulation  rather  than  love. 

He  did  not  wish  to  destroy  this  mood  in  her  by  more 
commonplace  conversation,  so  he  rose,  saying  that  he  feared 
he  had  kept  her  too  long  from  her  father,  to  whom  he 
hoped  that  she  would  express  his  regrets.  Just  as  he  was 
going,  Jimmy  Toots  emerged  again  from  the  lilacs  and, 
flying  to  the  bronze  basket  on  the  little  pedestal,  fixed  him 
with  an  impish,  half-veiled  eye. 

Richard  paused. 

"By  the  wray,"  he  said,  "I  must  make  a  painting  of  you 
and  that  sardonic  crow  together — if  you  will  let  me. ' ' 

"Of  me  .  .  .  with  Jimmy  Toots?"  said  Phoebe  doubt 
fully.  She  did  not  want  the  prince  to  paint  her  with  so 
unromantic  a  fowl.  She  would  have  preferred  to  hold  an 
armful  of  hyacinths, — those  dim  blue  blossoms  which  would 
always  mean  Richard  to  her  from  this  day  until  she  died. 

' '  Certainly — it  will  be  unique, ' '  said  he  decisively.  ' '  But 
is  'Jimmy  Toots'  his  name?  It  doesn't  seem  at  all  a  fitting 
one  to  me.  I  shall  always  think  of  him  as  Charles  Baude 
laire." 

He  took  of?  his  hat  gravely  to  the  crow. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  65 

"Au  revoir,  M.  Baudelaire,"  he  said. 

The  crow  fluffed  out  his  sombre  plumage,  drew  up  one 
foot,  then  stretched  it  far  out;  opening  his  heak  wide,  he 
seemed  to  yawn  derisively  in  Richard's  face — then  sud 
denly  he  flew  again  to  Phoehe's  shoulder. 

''Caw!   Caw!"  he  cried  harshly. 

' '  You  two  are  wonderful  together  .  .  .  wonderful, ' '  said 
Richard,  with  the  enthusiasm  that  only  art  could  rouse  in 
him.  "I  shall  call  my  painting  'Pandore  et  le  Genie  du 
Coffre.'  .  .  .  There's  something  very  French  about  you — 
the  way  your  hair  grows,  perhaps."  He  indicated  it  with 
one  of  those  leaflike  gestures  of  his  hand.  ' '  One  can  think 
of  you  in  a  'hcnnin' — with  the  white  wimple  flowing  clearly 

over  your  burning  hair,  like "  He  hesitated,  seeking 

the  appropriate  simile,  "like  foam  over  flame.  I  won't 
delay.  If  you  don 't  mind,  I  '11  come  tomorrow. ' ' 

"No.  .  .  .     Come,"  said  Phoebe  softly. 

Richard  bent  over  her  hand  in  the  way  that  he  had 
brought  back  from  France,  and  kissed  it.  The  kiss  seemed 
to  fly  along  her  veins  and  print  itself  on  her  heart. 

M.  Jimmy  Toots  de  Baudelaire  ca\ved  again, — very  sul 
lenly  this  time,  and  smacked  his  beak  with  a  sound  as  of 
little  shears  being  smartly  closed. 


XII 

A  FTER  Richard  had  been  for  the  second  time  to  Nelson 's 
•*"*•  Gift,  he  decided  that  his  mother  had  better  call  imme 
diately.  He  broke  it  to  her  thus : 

' '  I  've  something  rather  agreeable  to  tell  you,  mother. — I 
know  how  you  always  worry  in  the  end  when  you  don 't  see 
your  way  to  doing  what  Uncle  Owen  wishes,  so  I'll  com 
fort  your  mind  by  telling  you  that  I  met  Phoebe  Nelson 
out  riding  the  other  day,  and  she's  not  at  all  the  gushing 
miss — but  a  quiet,  pleasant  girl: — I  think  you'd  really 
rather  like  her. ' ' 

They  were  at  breakfast  in  the  West  Portico,  and  he 
helped  himself  to  a  piece  of  butter  while  speaking,  care 
fully  lifting  on  it  one  of  the  nasturtium  flowers  with  which 
it  was  adorned. — He  always  ate  the  blossoms  with  his  but 
ter.  To  devour  colour,  bloom  and  pungency  all  in  one,  he 
said,  lifted  the  low  necessity  of  eating  to  an  aesthetic 
pleasure. 


66  WORLD'S-END 

As  his  mother  said  nothing,  merely  busying  herself  with 
the  old  Sheffield  coffee-urn,  he  continued,  "Uncle  Owen 
was  right,  too,  in  saying  that  she  isn't  beautiful, — but  she 
has  extraordinarily  lovely  colouring.  It's  like  looking  at  .a 
materialisation  of  the  tints  that  float  before  me  after  gazing 
at  masses  of  black  and  white." 

Sally  here  made  one  of  the  tart  remarks  she  rarely  ad 
dressed  to  her  son,  but  which  she  was  noted  for  making  to 
less-privileged  mortals.  "Your  sense  of  colour,  it  seems 
to  me,  should  be  sufficiently  stimulated  by  the  mass  of  blacks 
and  whites  that  your  uncle  has  accumulated  here  at 
World 's-End,  without  going  farther  afield,  my  dear  Rich 
ard." 

Richard  received  this  gnat-bite  upon  the  smooth,  metal 
lic  surface  of  the  humour  in  which  he  always  encased  him 
self  when  foreseeing  a  tilt  with  his  parent.  "It  is  singu 
lar,"  said  he,  "how  a  race  afflicted  with  the  horrible  shades 
of  muddy  buff  that  specialise  the  skins  of  Caucasians  should 
ever  have  been  called  'white.' .  .  .  One  rarely  sees  a  com 
plexion  that  even  approaches  white.  Phoebe  Nelson"  (he 
pronounced  the  name  with  deliberation)  "has  a  really 
white  complexion.  At  times  it  is  like  a  pale  camellia  re 
flecting  blood." 

Sally  gave  the  urn  a  sharp  twitch  of  disgust.  "What  a 
horrid  simile!"  she  exclaimed,  "and  at  the  breakfast-table, 
too.  .  .  ." 

"My  dear  mother,"  said  Richard,  "blood  is  a  component 
part  of  the  loveliest  complexion — besides,  even  in  itself, 
blood  is  a  beautiful  thing.  I  have  often  thought  that  Nero 
used  his  emerald  at  the  circus,  not  to  escape  seeing  the 
ruby  pools  in  the  arena,  but  to  intensify  his  sense  of  crim 
son  by  the  use  of  its  complementary  colour  when  he  next 
looked  with  the  naked  eye." 

"Richard !  I  beg  of  you,"  cried  Sally,  pushing  back  her 
chair,  "the  last  morsel  of  roll  that  I  was  trying  to  swal 
low  is  nearly  choking  me." 

She  drank  some  gulps  of  the  scalding  coffee  that  she 
had  just  made,  so  hurriedly  that  tears  came  into  her  eyes, 
and  she  was  obliged,  despite  her  desire  for  cold  dignity  at 
that  moment,  to  blow  her  nose. 

"As  you  like, — I'm  sorry,"  said  Richard  with  his  little 
air  of  indulgence,  which,  as  fervently  as  she  adored  him, 
maddened  the  high-spirited  Sally  at  times. 

"Sometimes,"  she  said  bluntly,  "you  certainly  talk  non- 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  67 

sense,  Richard.  It's  clever  nonsense,  but  it's  nonsense  all 
the  same. ' ' 

Richard  smiled  and  bowed  teasingly. 

"Clever  nonsense  is  a  thing  that  Socrates  would  have 
taken  off  his  laurels  to,"  he  said,  unruffled. 

' '  This  girl, ' '  burst  forth  his  mother  sharply,  not  ventur 
ing  to  engage  in  a  contest  of  wit  with  him,  "you  are  going 
to  bring  her  here,  I  suppose?" 

"Why,  no,"  said  Richard.  "I  was  thinking  that  if  you 
went  there  it  would  please  four  people  very  much,  at  very 
little  expense  to  your  comfort." 

"I  see  no  necessity  whatever  for  my  driving  five  miles 
over  abominable  roads  to  call  on  a  girl  of  sixteen." 

"Twenty,  on  the  first  of  May — so  she  told  me  yester 
day.  When  you  see  her  you  will  agree  with  me  that  May 
day  is  the  most  appropriate  in  the  calendar  for  her  birth 
day." 

' '  I  wonder  that  the  girl  herself  should  wish  it.  It  would 
be  much  more  proper  for  her  to  call  on  me." 

"As  far  as  I  can  make  out,"  said  Richard,  taking  an 
other  nasturtium  in  his  fingers  and  munching  it  delicately, 
"she  is  distinctly  frightened  by  the  idea.  I  imagine  that 
she  would  receive  you  with  much  the  emotions  that  the  fair 
Rosamond  received  Queen  Eleanor." 

This  made  Sally  very  angry. 

"I  consider  that  comparison  gratuitously  and  egregiously 
impertinent,"  she  said,  having  recourse  to  pentasyllables 
as  one  uses  a  charger's  hoofs  to  crush  an  enemy  too  skilful 
with  the  cross-bow. 

"I  ~bcg  your  pardon.  ..."  said  Richard  with  a  look  of 
real  concern.  Whatever  affection  he  had  was  given  to  his 
mother,  besides,  he  did  not  wish  to  antagonise  her  too  much 
just  now.  ' '  I  am  very,  very  sorry  that  you  took  my  words 
in  that  way,  mother.  I  didn't  mean  to  anger  you,  of  that 
you  may  be  sure." 

This  was  true  in  a  sense,  for,  although  he  had  thought 
a  little  delicate  teasing  would  not  be  amiss,  he  had  not 
desired  to  rouse  actual  wrath. 

He  got  up  suddenly  and  went  round  behind  her  chair. 
His  rare  kisses  he  kept  in  reserve  for  just  such  occasions, 
like  magic  bullets  sure  to  reach  the  mark.  Bending  over, 
he  now  bestowed  one  lightly  on  his  mother's  hair.  Her 
stiffness  did  not  relax,  but  a  slight  red  flew  into  her  sallow 
cheeks. 


68  WORLD'S-END 

"Mater  mea,"  said  Richard  softly,  "I'm  sorry.  .  .  . 
Won't  that  do?" 

Sally  struggled  for  a  moment,  then  her  hand  went  up  to 
his  where  it  rested  on  her  shoulder.  She  gave  a  catching 
sigh.  Deep  are  even  the  slight  wounds  of  an  only  son  so 
avidly  beloved. 

"There  are  some  things  ..."  she  began,  then  ended  in 
another  tone:  "But  there  .  .  .  since  you're  sorry." 

Richard  seated  himself  on  the  arm  of  the  old  Georgian 
chair. 

"Really,  mother,"  he  said,  "you  have  enchanting  hair. 
As  I  look  down  on  the  lovely  black  and  white  web  of  it,  I 
see  in  it  the  rarest  hues — violet,  emerald,  almandin.  ..." 

Sally  laughed  outright,  and  her  ill-temper  fled  as  quickly 
as  it  had  come. 

"An  old  woman  with  rainbow-coloured  hair! — What  a 
picture ! ' ' 

"Rainbow-coloured  hair  would  be  beautiful  with  your 
eyes,  mother,"  said  Richard. 

"If  you  praise  my  eyes,  you  praise  your  own,  my  boy," 
said  she. 

That  Richard  had  her  own  eyes  gave  Sally  an  unending 
pleasure,  secret  and  exquisite.  It  was  like  the  seal  of  her 
motherhood  upon  him.  The  sign  that  made  him  hers  in  a 
way  that  no  other  woman  could  ever  possess  him. 

"If,"  said  Richard,  with  the  sort  of  eighteenth-century 
gallantry  that  he  used  to  her  at  times,  and  which  he  knew 
delighted  her,  "if  the  gods  had  asked  me  before  birth  what 
gift  I  would  have  from  life,  I  should  have  replied  'my 
mother's  eyes.'  " 

And  bending  over  he  kissed  the  slight,  burnt-out  looking 
hand  with  its  soft,  thin  palm  and  nails  a  little  too  deeply 
curved  at  the  matrix. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Mother,"  he  then  said,  choosing 
this  propitious  moment  for  frankness,  with  his  usual  acu 
men  in  dealing  with  her,  "the  girl  promises  me  the  rarest 
subject  for  a  painting.  She  has  for  a  pet  a  grim  old  crow, 
that  perches  on  her  shoulder.  Her  hair  is  like  autumn 
leaves  on  fire,  and  to  see  that  sin-black  bird  against  it,  so 
close  to  her  fresh,  na'ive  face.  What  do  you  think  of  doing 
her  in  a  thin  gold-tissue  gown,  and  calling  it  Tandore  et 
le  Genie  du  Coffre'f" 

"The  titles  you  choose  are  always  beautiful,  but  I  can 
scarcely  tell  about  the  picture  until  I  have  seen  the  girl." 


VV  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  69 

This  inadvertent  admission  did  not  escape  Richard. 

''That  was  just  what  I  was  thinking  of,"  said  he.  "I 
want  your  opinion  as  always,  and  to  give  it,  of  course,  you 
would  have  to  see  her.  Besides,  in  a  country  neighbour 
hood  like  this,  it's  always  best  to  feign  conventionality — 
don't  you  think  so? — If  you  called  on  Phoebe  Nelson,  my 
painting  her  would  seem  perfectly  natural,  and  people 
wouldn't  go  devising  some  stupid  romance." 

"You  see,"  admitted  Sally  reluctantly,  "I  didn't  know 
that  you  thought  of  painting  her." 

"Then  you'll  be  a  gracious  lady,  and  go?"  asked  Rich 
ard,  kissing  her  hand  again. 

' '  Where  your  art  is  concerned,  I  put  all  personal  feeling 
aside,"  replied  his  mother.  "Yes,  I  will  go.  This  after 
noon?" 

' '  That  would  be  charming  of  you — then  I  could  continue 
my  painting  tomorrow." 

"Very  well —  "  said  Sally,  "you  might  as  well  order 
the  carriage  now,  so  that  John  will  not  take  out  one  of 
the  bays  this  morning." 

And,  lighting  a  cigarette,  Richard  strolled  off  to  the 
stables,  well  satisfied  with  what  he  had  accomplished  and 
the  way  in  which  he  had  accomplished  it. 

"When  he  and  Sally  arrived  at  Nelson's  Gift  that  after 
noon  there  were  guests  already  in  the  green-panelled  room? 
and  Phoebe  was  handing  thin  biscuits  and  Madeira. 

As  she  saw  Richard  entering  with  his  mother  the  little 
tray  that  she  was  carrying  in  one  hand  tilted  and  the  wine 
glasses  ran  together  with  a  crisp  tinkle.  She  put  it  down, 
and  came  forward  with  her  shy  grace.  Her  muslin  frock 
was  white  today  and  she  had  pinned  some  hyacinths  on 
her  breast. 

Sally  saw  at  once  that,  as  Richard  had  said,  her  colouring 
was  lovely,  but  Phoebe's  mouth  displeased  her. 

The  guests  proved  to  be  Phoebe's  English  friend  who  had 
lent  her  the  pattern  for  her  riding  coat— a  Mrs.  Griggs — 
with  a  distant  relative,  Lady  Agnes  Tonks.  and  her  son 
Harold,  a  youth  of  eighteen.  Harold,  it  seemed,  had  de 
veloped  a  delicacy  of  the  chest,  and  his  mother  was  touring 
the  world  with  him  in  search  of  the  health  required  to 
continue  his  education  at  Oxford. 

Lady  Agnes, — who  owed  her  title  to  the  fact  of  being 
a  daughter  of  the  Marquess  of  Portingale, — the  late  Mr. 
Tonks  having  risen  to  opulence  from  the  humbler  sphere 


70  WORLD'S-END 

of  "trade," — was  small,  slight,  prettily  rounded  and  as 
vivacious  as  a  Frenchwoman. 

Harold  was  a  grey-eyed,  large-mouthed  lad,  with  a  win 
ning  snub-nose  freckled  on  the  bridge  and  a  delightful 
voice.  Harold  and  Phoebe  had  become  great  friends  during 
his  stay.  He  thought  her  the  nicest  girl  that  he  had  ever 
seen. 

They  had  been  discussing  the  latest  vagaries  of  Mr.  Nigel 
Graham,  the  Scottish  agent,  wrhen  Richard  and  his  mother 
entered,  and  now  the  subject  was  taken  up  again. 

It  seemed  that  Mr.  Graham,  on  discovering  that  some  of 
the  Nelson's  Gift  cattle  had  strayed  upon  his  farm  through 
a  gate  inadvertently  left  open  had  turned  cows  and  calves 
into  the  highroad. 

"Most  boorish,  I  call  it.  Fancy  doin'  a  thing  like  that- 
to  a  neighbour!"  said  Lady  Agnes. 

"Mr.  Graham  is  not  distinguished  for  his  neighbourli- 
ness, ' '  remarked  Mr.  Nelson,  not  smiling  this  time,  however 

"The  man's  a  regular  curmudgeon,"  said  Mrs.  Griggs. 

' '  I  had  to  get  on  Killdee  in  the  rain  to  help  find  them, ' ' 
Phoebe  put  in,  "one  of  the  poor  little  calves  nearly 
died." 

Here  Harold,  who  had  contained  himself  with  difficulty 
until  his  elders  expressed  themselves,  burst  forth.  He  had 
a  little  difficulty  with  the  letter  "  b  "  in  speaking.  He  now 
said  with  considerable  violence: 

' '  That 's  the  sort  of  b-bally  b-bounder  that  we  kick  on  the 
b-b-behind  at  Eton." 

"Don't  be  coarse,  sweetie,"  remonstrated  Lady  Agnes, 
just  flicking  him  on  the  sleeve  with  one  of  her  long,  wash- 
leather  gloves  that  she  had  drawn  off  when  the  wine  and 
thin  biscuits  were  served. 

Young  Harold  became  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock.  It  was  a 
real  blight  upon  his  manhood,  this  dreadful  habit  of  his 
mother's  which  he  could  not  break,  and  which  consisted 
of  addressing  him  on  the  most  untoward  occasions  by  the 
nursery  term  of  endearment,  "sweetie." 

But  Lady  Agnes,  quite  unconscious  of  her  lapse — she  had 
so  often  promised  reformation  and  failed  to  accomplish  it 
that  her  son  had  almost  resigned  hope, — now  drew  her 
chair  up  to  Sally,  who  was  seated  by  Mr.  Nelson,  and  said 
in  her  clear  staccato: 

"I'm  so  enjoying  this  amazin'  country  of  yours,  Mrs. 
Bryce.  These  Virginia  hills  are  sweetly  pretty.  Naturalty 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  71 

I  dote  on  them,  for  they've  brought  my  poor  dear  boy  his 
health  again." 

"I  am  very  glad,"  responded  Sally  a  little  stiffly,  for  she 
thought  Lady  Agnes 's  manner  rather  patronising.  "It  is 
not  pleasant  to  have  one's  son  ill." 

"'Not  pleasant,'.  .  .  my  word!"  exclaimed  her  lady 
ship,  using  a  provincialism  of  her  own  countryside  which 
she  thought  rather  fetching  as  employed  by  a  daughter  of 
Lord  Portingale.  "That's  an  odd  way  of  puttin'  it,  to  be 
isure.  But  then,  you  Americans  are  so  delightfully  unex 
pected." 

Sally  indulged  her  desire  for  tartness. 

"Do  you  lump  us  all  together  like  that?"  she  inquired 
mildly.  "Chinese,  Germans,  Slavs,  Irish?" 

"AVell, "  said  Lady  Agnes  airily,  "they  all  get  the  flav 
our,  you  know.  It's  like  puttin'  garlic  in  a  pot-pourri — 
not  that  I  mean  to  be  uncomplimentary.  You're  a  fas- 
cmatin'  race — fascinatin' — so  original.  Now  here,  in  this 
state, — 'down  South,'  you  call  it,  don't  you?" 

"We  are  rather  in  the  habit  of  calling  it  Virginia,"  re 
plied  Sally,  who  was  thoroughly  vexed  by  this  time. 

"Ah,  yes  .  .  .  quite  so.  ...  Dear  old  Thackeray — but 
I  must  say  he  wasn't  a  dab  at  givin'  the  local  colour  to 
other  countries.  Now,  here,  it  strikes  one,  you  know, — I'm 
sure  you  won't  mind  my  mentionin'  it,  because  I  think  it 
rather  attractive — but  really  it  does  strike  one — I  mean 
the  way  that  all  the  Virginians  talk  like  niggers.  I  mean, 
you  know — that  it  seems  surprisin'  that  the  whites 
shouldn't  have  got  the  black  to  talk  like  them,  instead  of 
talkin '  like  the  blacks.  Eh,  what  ? ' ' 

Here  Richard,  anxious  that  this  visit  should  pass  smooth 
ly,  called  out: 

"Mother,  do  ask  Miss  Nelson  to  show  you  her  garden 
and  her  crow." 

Phoebe  came  up  shyly.  His  mother !  And  such  a  com 
manding  personage,  to  boot.  It  was  rather  overwhelming 
to  be  asked  to  show  a  crow,  of  all  things,  to  such  a  stately 
being. 

"I  should  love  to  ...  if  you  would  care,"  she  hesi 
tated,  lifting  wistful  eyes. 

' '  I  shall  be  charmed, ' '  said  Sally  with  unusual  gracious- 
ness,  so  delightful  did  it  seem  to  her  to  be  rid  of  the  stac 
cato  arpeggios  of  Lady  Agnes'  running  commentary  on  her 
native  State  and  its  inhabitants. 


72  WORLD'S-END 

So  Phoebe  took  Sally  into  her  garden  and  to  her,  of  all 
people,  presented  Jimmy  Toots. 

' '  Thank  God,  that  is  over ! ' '  said  Sally  with  real  feeling, 
as  ten  minutes  later  she  was  rolling  again  towards  World 's- 
End  with  Eichard  beside  her.  "That  type  of  English 
woman  is  more  than  I  can  endure  patiently.  If  the  '  belted 
earl,'  her  faiher,  had  trounced  her  soundly  with  the  belt 
in  her  childhood — not  removing  the  buckle — he  might  have 
taught  her  good  manners.  And  the  girl's  father,  an  arro 
gant  old  pedant Fancy  announcing  on  his  own  au 
thority  like  that  that  the  Chivalls  and  Cabells  are  one  fam 
ily  !  And  that  snub-nosed  boy  with  his  coarse  vulgarities. 
Thank  heaven  that  you  went  to  an  American  school  and 
an  American  college.  ..." 

Richard  felt  it  to  be  something  gained  that  his  mother 
had  not  yet  excoriated  poor  Phoebe  with  that  double-edged 
tongue  of  hers  which  had  evidently  been  whetted  by  this 
visit. 

' '  Didn  't  you  think  the  contrast  of  that  sinister  crow  with 
the  girl's  youth  and  colouring  striking?" 

"Almost  too  striking,  Richard,  to  be  quite  frank.  To 
me  it  seemed  a  most  unpleasing  combination.  Shall  you 
paint  her  mouth  exactly  as  it  is  ?" 

"It's  a  unique  mouth,  isn't  it?" 

"To  me,"  said  Sally,  "it  is  painfully  bizarre.  I  was 
reading  the  other  day  in  that  book  of  Chinese  translations 
from  which  you  took  your  libretto, — and  in  one  of  the 
poems  the  lover  compares  a  girl's  lips  to  'crimson  cater 
pillars' — Phoebe  Nelson's  mouth  is  like  that." 

Sally  could  be  deliberately  malicious  when  she  chose. 

But  Richard  was  not  offended. 

"  'Crimson  caterpillars!'.  .  .  Charming!"  said  he.  "I 
have  always  thought  that  the  gracefulness  of  worms  was  not 
appreciated. ' ' 

Sally  gave  it  up. 

XIII 

XT  morning,  when  Richard  came,  the  garden  was 
immaculate  of  the  presence  of  young  Tonks. 
"Thank  heaven,"  said  he  to  Phoebe,  "that  Yorkshire 
pudding  of  a  boy  is  not  here  today.     He  is  like  a  young 
Bottom  among  your  flowers,  and  he  needs  no  mask  to  make 
Mm  so. — His  head  is  naturally  the  ass's." 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  73 

"No,  no,"  said  Phoebe,  smiling  but  loyal.  "Harold  is 
really  a  clear.  I  don 't  know  what  possessed  him  yesterday, 
but  I  gave  him  a  good  scolding  after  you  went.  I  don't 
think  he'll  bother  us  again  for  some  time."  This  last  was 
said  with  perfect  unconsciousness  of  its  full  meaning.  "I 
can't  think  what  got  into  him  yesterday  to  be  so  sulky," 
she  repeated. 

Richard  smiled  at  a  pencil  which  he  was  sharpening. 

' '  Can  Jt  you  ? ' '  said  he.     ' '  I  can. ' ' 

' '  Really  ? ' '  asked  Phoebe,  curious.    ' '  What,  then  ? ' ' 

"Why,  the  youth  is  over  his  big  ears  in  love  with  you," 
replied  Richard,  blowing  the  pencil-dust  delicately  from 
its  point,  and  looking  straight  at  her. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  cried,  blushing  over  all  the  milky  skin 
that  her  frock  left  uncovered.  To  her  the  wrord  "love" 
from  his  lips,  even  in  this  indirect  way,  set  her  pulses 
tingling.  "He's  only  a  little  boy  .  .  .  almost  a  child." 

' '  That 's  nothing, ' '  said  Richard  gravely.  ' '  When  I  was 
only  a  child  of  seven  I  was  wildly  in  love  with  r.  friend  of 
my  mother's.  When  she  used  to  lift  me  up  among  the 
perfumed  laces  at  her  breast  I  used  to  feel  as  though  I 
would  faint  for  joy." 

"Oh!  .  .  ."  was  all  that  Phoebe  could  manage, — this 
seemed  to  her  so  peculiar  and  sweetly  confusing  somehow. 

"I  used  to  look  up  at  her  beautiful  mouth  and  ache 
because  my  own  was  so  humiliatingly  little.  I  used  to 
imagine  how,  when  I  was  a  man,  I  would  kiss  those  lips 
until  I  hurt  them  to  make  up  for  my  own  pain." 

' '  Oh !  .  .  . "  said  Phoebe  again  in  a  lower  voice.  Her  col 
our  came  and  went  under  his  words,  like  a  flag  of  rose  and 
white  shaken  by  the  wind. 

Richard,  reflecting  how  sweetly  facile  she  was  to  play 
upon,  recalled  an  old  legend, — Irish,  was  it?  or  German, 
perhaps — of  a  man  who  plays  upon  an  enchanted  harp 
that  suddenly  begins  to  make  music  of  itself, — and 
through  this  music  he  discovers  that  the  harp  is  really 
made  out  of  a  wToman,  and  that  in  playing  on  its  strings 
he  has  been  playing  with  her  lovely  hair. 

Such  a  harp,  he  thought,  was  Phoebe,  made  for  the 
subtle  delight  of  a  rare  artist.  And  looking  at  her  with 
his  slightly  heavy  black  eyes,  of  which  the  irises  were  so 
large  in  proportion  to  the  white,  he  mused  on  the  fortu 
nate  chance  which  had  sent  her  across  his  path,  just  as  the 
creative  mood  in  him  was  waning. 


74  WORLD'S-END 

All  the  women  who  were  drawn  to  him  and  his  work,  no 
matter  how  differing  in  type,  gave  off,  under  the  stimu 
lus  of  his  fancies,  a  sort  of  pollen  of  the  spirit  which 
strangely  fertilised  the  flower  of  his  art.  But  never  had  he 
found  so  perfectly,  so  delicately  responsive  a  temperament 
as  this  of  Phoebe.  One  had  but  to  touch  her  with  a  feather 
from  the  wings  of  love  and  she  would  flush  and  quicken. 
But  the  instrument  was  delicate  and  must  not  be  touched 
too  forcefully.  Besides,  he  must  reveal  to  her  gradually 
his  implacable  aversion  from  all  conventional  forms  of  love 
• — he  must  let  her  become  indubitably  aware  that  for  him 
marriage  did  not  represent  a  high  ideal  of  consecrated 
affection,  but  the  degrading  severance  from  all  freedom, 
the  gyves  with  which  the  dead  body  of  a  convention  is 
rivetted  to  the  living  spirit. 

In  this  way  he  would  protect  both  her  and  himself  from 
the  trying  results  of  a  young  girl's  worsted- work  dream  of 
a  romantic  affection  ending  in  wedding-cake. 

He  smiled  now  as  this  last  fancy  occurred  to  him,  and 
said : 

"You  may  look  at  what  I  have  done,  if  you  like,  this 
morning." 

' '  Oh,  I  have  longed  so  to  see  it ! "  she  cried  with  kindling 
eyes.  "May  I  look  now?" 

Richard  nodded,  and  she  came  and  stood  beside  him  at 
the  easel. 

The  drawing  was  a  web  of  beautiful,  flying  lines.  On  a 
faint  background  of  many  Phoebes,  the  one  pose  that  he 
had  finally  chosen  stood  out  clear  and  vivid.  He  had  per 
haps  exaggerated  her  likeness  to  a  Botticelli,  so  that  the 
head  seemed  a  little  small  for  the  long,  nymphean  limbs, 
and  he  had  more  than  suggested  the  pretty  globes  of  her 
breast  under  the  crimpled  draperies.  But  the  translation 
of  Jimmy  Toots  into  a  bird  of  sombre  presage  was  wholly 
a  masterpiece.  Far  more  than  any  serpent,  he  seemed 
fitted  to  whisper  of  honeyed  sins  in  the  ear  of  this  virginal 
Eve-Pandore. 

Richard  waited  a  moment,  then  said,  "Well?" 

"Are  my  .  .  .  am  I  quite  as  ...  as  long  as 
that?"  asked  "Pandore"  at  last,  timidly.  "It's  beau 
tiful,  of  course,"  she  hurried  on,  "only  I  didn't  know 
that  ..." 

' '  The  line  from  your  girdle  to  your  shoe-tip  is  one  of  the 
loveliest  and  most  unusual  I  ever  saw,"  said  Richard  reas- 


WORLD'S-END  75 

suringly.  "It  is  longer  than  in  most  women,  but  all  the 
more  exquisite  for  that." 

Phoebe  could  hardly  believe  her  own  rose-flushed  ears. 
There  was  then  something  about  her  that  the  prince 
thought  "exquisite"! — Oh,  magic  April  morning,  forever 

blessed  among  all  mornings, — day  of  days It  was  then 

exquisite  to  have  long  legs  and  a  head  like  a  little  flower 
with  foliage-hair ! 

"The  head  is  much  n-nicer  than  mine,"  she  murmured, 
stammering  in  her  delightful  surprise. 

' '  No, ' '  said  Richard,  ' '  but  I  must  ask  you  something.  .  .  . 
You  see,  to  balance  the  composition — those  black  wings 
tilting  sharply  to  the  right  need  something  here.  ..." 
He  made  a  swift  curve  in  the  air  before  the  drawing  with 
his  pencil.  "I  think,  if  it  won't  be  too  much  trouble,  I'll 
get  you  to  loosen  your  hair. ' ' 

"AVhy,  of  course,"  said  Phoebe  happily,  beginning  to 
draw  out  the  shining  masses  about  her  ears. 

But  Eichard  just  touched  her  hand  lightly.  "No,"  he 
said  again,  "I  don't  mean  loosen  it  in  that  way.  I  mean 
let  it  fall  loose  all  about  you." 

For  an  instant  even  the  submissive  adulation  of  Phoebe 
was  staggered.  "Wliat  would  her  father,  and  Aunt  Patty, 
and  the  upright  black  Lily, — unexpected  neighbours  .  .  . 
what  would  they  say, — were  they  to  come  and  find  her  sit 
ting  to  a  young  man  in  her  garden,  with  her  hair  flying 
loose? 

Then  she  thought,  ' '  How  silly  I  am ! — Hasn  't  he  brought 
his  mother  to  see  me? — Of  course  he  wouldn't  ask  me  to  do 
anything  really  improper."  (Phoebe  regulated  her  con 
duct  by  that  old-fashioned  word.)  So  she  said  again, 
"Why,  of  course,"  and  began  pulling  out  all  the  big  amber 
pins  that  held  her  heavy  locks  in  place. 

As  it  tumbled  down,  a  rippling,  flashing  sheet  of  flame 
and  sunlight,  the  sight  went  a  little  to  Richard's  senses 
other  than  artistic.  He  had  an  almost  uncontrollable  im 
pulse  to  plunge  his  hands  into  the  fragrant  mass. 

"Astarte  must  have  had  hair  like  that,"  he  said. 

Phoebe,  who  didn't  know  who  this  lady  might  be,  but 
who  divined  from  Richard's  tone  that  she  must  have  had 
beautiful  hair,  smiled  shyly,  carding  out  the  silken  lengths 
with  her  fingers  and  looking  askance  at  them. 

"It's  a  dreadful  trial  in  hot  weather,"  she  said. 

Richard  could  not,  or  rather  would  not,  resist  his  desire 


76  WORLD'S-END 

longer.  The  touch,  of  rare  textures  was  one  of  his  subtlest 
pleasures.  , 

"May  I?"  he  asked,  extending  his  hand,  and,  as  she  did 
not  answer,  only  went  on  smiling,  not  knowing  quite  what 
it  was  that  he  wanted,  he  lifted  one  of  her  tresses  and 
pulled  out  its  shining  skein  across  his  palm. 

Phoebe  quivered  slightly,  as  though  her  hair  had  the 
antennas-like  quality  of  sensation.  Part  of  her  actually  lay 
there  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  Mysterious  and  lovely 
thought.  And  there,  too,  lay  her  heart,  if  he  had  only 
known  it.  And  his  heart?  Ah,  he  would  not  touch  her 
hair  like  that  if  his  heart  were  not  already  hers  as  hers 
was  his.  .  .  . 

He  murmured  some  words  in  French  : 

"...  cette  chevelure, 
"Je  la  veux  agiter  dans  I' air  comme  un  mouchoir!" 

Then  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  hers  with  the  still,  brooding  look 
that  she  loved,  and  said  softly: 

"You  have  the  hair  of  destiny,  little  Phoebe." 

They  had  agreed  only  yesterday  that  being  cousins  after 
all  they  would  call  each  other  by  their  Christian  names. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  she  faltered.  It  was  so  wonder 
ful  to  have  him  speak  her  name.  She  no  longer  chafed  at 
its  plainness  since  he  had  said  that  it  was  charming.  She 
repeated  his  words  wonderingly,  "The  hair  of  des 
tiny  .  .  .?" 

"The  greatest  women  lovers  in  history  and  legend  had 
hair  like  yours  I  feel  sure, — Isolde,  Guinevere,  Lucrezia, 
Francesca,  La  Valliere.  It  is  the  true  'Field  of  the  Cloth 
of  Gold '  where  kings  meet,  not  to  parley  with  one  another, 
but  with  Eros, — he  who  is  also  called  Pteros — the  Flyer, 
because  he  comes  and  goes  so  swiftly." 

He  paused,  and,  as  she  looked  up  at  him  with  deepened 
eyes  but  saying  nothing,  continued : 

' '  Your  eyes  are  very  mysterious  behind  this  veil  of  gold. 
You  have  religious  eyes,  dear  Phoebe — but  your  mouth  .  .  . 
shall  I  tell  you  what  I  said  to  myself  about  your  mouth 
and  eyes  when  I  first  saw  them?" 

"Yes.  ..."  whispered  the  girl. 

So  he  told  her  his  simile  of  the  nuns  and  the  amoureuse. 
Phoebe,  whose  knowledge  of  French  was  only  that  of  the 
average  school-girl,  thought  that  amoureuse  was  merely 


WORLD'S-END  77 

the  feminine  of  "amour,"  which  she  knew  meant  "love," 
and  so  she  said  softly  that  she  thought  his  idea  beauti 
ful. 

"She  hasn't  an  inkling  of  its  real  meaning,"  reflected 
Richard,  and,  vexed  with  the  harp  for  failing  this  time 
to  make  music  of  its  own  under  his  subtle  touch,  he  turned 
away  suddenly,  saying  that  he  must  begin  to  work. 

After  ten  minutes  at  his  easel,  however,  he  came  and  lay 
upon  the  grass  beside  her. 

"This  lovely  hair  of  yours,"  he  said,  just  touching  the 
curved  ends  that  hung  beside  him,  "is  so  marvellously 
alive  that  it  seems  to  draw  the  vitality  from  the  rest  of  my 
picture.  I  must  stop  a  while  and  begin  again  from  another 
point  of  view." 

He  rested  his  chin  on  his  palm  and  lay  looking  at  her 
quietly  for  a  while. 

"It  seems  strange,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  you,  who  are 
the  very  spirit  of  youth,  should  be  the  child  of  an  old 
man." 

Phoebe,  who  had  never  thought  of  this,  looked  at  him, 
startled.  And  she  remembered  that  her  mother,  too,  had 
not  been  young  at  the  time  of  her  marriage.  What  a  sad, 
sad  thought ! — Her  father  and  mother  had  never  been  young 
lovers  ...  as  she  and  Richard  were. 

' i  But  I  've  heard  that  the  most  beautiful  love  often  comes 
after  marriage, ' ''  she  said,  speaking  her  thought. 

Richard  smiled,  playing  with  the  ends  of  her  hair.  "My 
dear  little  Phoebe,  love  doesn't  \vait  on  lawyers  and  mar 
riage-licenses,  but  takes  whom  it  will,  when,  where  and 
how  it  will.  Indeed,  marriage  is  love's  bitterest  enemy, 
not  his  gracious  friend,  as  so  many  think." 

"Love's  enemy?"  asked  Phoebe,  filled  again  with  sad 
ness,  so  poignant  this  time  that  it  greyed  the  blueness  of  the 
sky.  "Oh,  how  can  that  be?"  she  appealed  to  him. 

"Tie  a  flower  to  a  bar  of  iron  and  lay  it  before  a  slow 
fire — won't  the  flower  wither?" 

"No  ...  no  ...  it  can't  be  like  that!" 

"But,  Phoebe,  dear,  it  is — I  have  seen  too  many  mar 
riages  not  to  know." 

The  blue  eyes  above  him  grew  black.  They  flashed  wide 
and  her  lips  trembled. 

"It  is  not!  It  is  not!"  she  cried.  "The  Brown 
ings  ..." 

"Oh,  dear  Phoebe,"  said  Richard,  letting  himself  drop  all 


78  WORLD'S-END 

his  length  upon  the  grass  as  though  exhausted.  "Spare  me 
the  Brownings ! ' ' 

Phoebe  was  almost  angry, — if  she  could  have  felt  anger 
against  him,  she  would  have  been  in  a  downright  temper. 
Her  Brownings!  Her  sacrosanct  ideals  of  wedded  bliss! 
And  to  be  asked  to  ' '  spare ' '  some  one  from  them ! 

"You  can't  be  in  earnest,"  she  said  with  a  stiff  dignity 
worthy  of  his  mother. 

"But  I  am,  dear.  My  earnestness  is  deadly — as  deadly 
as  that  picture  of  a  divine  passion  thinned  out  for — fifteen 
years,  I  think  it  was, — like  a  condiment  over  the  daily 
stale  bread  of  wedlock.  Phoebe,"  he  lifted  himself  on  his 
elbow  and  looked  at  her  mutinous  face  with  dark  humour. — 
' '  the  Brownings  were  guilty  in  my  eyes  of  one  of  the  worst 
crimes — they  took  a  great  passion  by  the  nape  and  made 
it  respectable. ' ' 

In  answer,  Phoebe  sprang  to  her  feet  and  began  twisting 
up  her  hair  as  though  she  were  wringing  out  a  wet  cloth. 
Unmistakable  now  was  the  vivid  anger  in  her  eyes.  She 
was,  in  fact,  in  what  Aunt  Patty  was  used  to  designate  "a 
tantrum."  Richard  saw  that  he  had  smitten  his  living 
harp  too  sharply. 

He  pulled  coaxingly  at  the  hem  of  her  mauve  skirt,  and 
Phoebe,  enamoured  though  she  was,  actually  said  sharply, 

"Don't!     It's  so  old  you'll  tear  it!" 

"Are  you  really  angry  .  .  .  with  me?"  asked  Richard 
in  a  voice  which  he  made  tremble  a  little. 

Phoebe  stood  still,  with  the  look  in  her  eyes  of  a  hare 
that  suddenly  finds  itself  in  a  trap.  She  stopped  twisting 
up  her  locks,  and  all  at  once  tears  shone  between  her  low 
ered  lashes. 

Richard  took  the  hand  that  hung  near  him  very  gently  in 
his  own. 

"How  are  we  to  be  real  companions,  Phoebe,"  he  said, 
"unless  you  give  me  freedom  to  speak  my  real  thoughts  to 
you  ? ' '  He  added  with  that  almost  daemonic  acumen  of  his 
for  the  right  note  at  the  right  moment,  "I'd  rather  be 
lonely  than  bound  in  any  way,  Phoebe. ' ' 

As  she  still  continued  silent  he  went  on  softly,  "Perfect 
freedom  .  .  .  wide-winged  liberty  in  thought,  in  love,  in 
art — those  are  my  ideals.  If  you  tied  your  red-bird  to 
your  wrist  with  a  cord,  would  you  have  any  pleasure  in  it  ? 
— Do  you  think  that  it  would  love  you  better, — or  continue 
to  love  you  at  all?"  He  just  touched  her  fingers  with  his 


WORLD'S-EXD  79 

lips.  "All  my  life  I  have  had  this  desperate  love  of  free 
dom,"  he  said.  "Once  when  I  was  a  child  my  mother 
tried  to  control  me  by  tying  me  to  a  chair.  It  threw  me 
into  convulsions." 

"Father  tied  me  to  a  chair,  too,  once  when  I  was  little," 
murmured  Phoebe  in  a  low  voice.  ' '  And  I  ...  I  bit  him. 
1  was  a  very  naughty  child.  I  always  had  a  dreadful 
temper.  I  ...  I  am  sorry." 

"You  see,"  said  Richard  in  a  casual  tone,  not  wishing 
to  underscore  her  repentance  as  it  were  by  accepting  it  iu 
words,  "my  ideal  of  great  love  is  the  loves  of  those  who 
never  tried  to  trim  Love's  wings  as  you've  trimmed  your 
crow's, — but  who  gladly  went  wherever  his  pinions  bore 
them — laughing  at  the  dull  rubble-heap  of  broken  laws. 
Laws,"  he  continued  musingly,  "are  never  interesting  until 
they  are  broken.  Yes, — I  had  rather  be  lonely  all  my  life 
than  bound." 

No  one  hated  bondage  more  than  Phoebe.  This  was  a 
sentiment  with  which  she  could  wholly  sympathise.  Oh, 
how  free  her  love  would  leave  him !  Their  marriage  would 
not  be  the  House  of  Bondage,  as  he  feared,  but  that  House 
of  Fulfilment  of  which  "William  Morris,  her  favourite  poet, 
wrote  so  beautifully  in  "Love  Is  Enough." 

The  sweet  lines  sang  in  her  mind. 

' '  Here  is  the  House  of  fulfillment  of  craving, 
Here  is  the  cup  with  the  roses  around  it. ' ' 

She  smiled  so  prettily  to  herself  that  Richard  said: 
"Tell  me  what  you  are  thinking  of,  Phoebe,  dear." 
But  she  shook  her  head  with  a  look  that  showed  him  it 

would  be  useless  to  coax  her,  and  for  the  moment  he  went 

back  to  his  work. 


XIV 

A  PRIL  was  over.  May  had  been  two  weeks  with  them, 
•**  the  Virginian  May  that  is  like  the  June  of  poets,  with 
its  roses  and  honeyed  sunlight  and  sweet,  impassioned 
clamouring  of  birds. 

With  April  had  gone  Harold  Tonks  and  his  mother. 
Phoebe  had  been  at  Crewe  Station  to  see  them  off,  mounted 
on  Killdee,  with  Richard  and  the  flighty  Borak  cur 
vetting  feverishly  beside  her  as  the  engine  let  off  shrill 


80  WORLD'S-END 

blasts  of  steam  before  starting.  It  had  been  some  small 
consolation  to  young  Harold  to  see  how  insecure  was  Eich- 
ard's  lanky  seat  on  Borak. 

"That  piffler  Bryce  can't  ride  for  nuts,"  he  had  told 
his  mother  as  the  train  drew  out.  ' '  A  rippin '  horsewoman 
like  Phoebe  is  bound  to  tire  of  such  a  duffer  in  the  end." 

And,  with  this  soothing  thought  in  his  mind  and  a  kiss 
blown  from  Phoebe's  dogskin  glove,  he  was  whirled  away 
to  Canada,  an  unwilling  young  Ccelebs  in  search  of  health. 

With  April  had  gone  also  Sally's  first  content  with  the 
beautiful  isolation  of  "World  's-End.  She  was  constitution 
ally  idle,  and,  like  most  other  idlers,  craved  the  contact 
of  her  kind.  Talking  was  so  much  the  easiest  occupation 
that  she  knew, — when  day-dreams  of  Richard's  future 
palled,  as  they  would  pall  sometimes  when  lack  of  Richard's 
presence  withdrew  their  proper  nourishment.  Moreover, 
Sally  was  beginning  to  be  a  little  restive  under  his  frequent 
visits  to  Nelson's  Gift.  Of  course  his  painting  was  their 
incentive,  but  then  one  never  knew.  The  spring  played  odd 
tricks  with  young  people, — even  with  the  aged,  she  had 
heard.  How  terrible,  how  disastrous  it  would  be  should 
Richard  present  her  with  Phoebe  as  a  daughter-in-law! — 
Sally  had  never  wished  for  a  daughter.  Indeed,  she  had 
never  felt  the  need  of  any  other  child  than  Richard, — and 
a  daughter-in-law.  .  .  .  The  thought  was  under  any  cir 
cumstance  disagreeable,  but  in  connection  with  Phoebe  Nel 
son!  .  .  . 

She  had  taken  one  of  those  strange  aversions  for  the 
young  girl  wrhich,  in  mothers,  resemble  the  spontaneous 
hatred  with  which  some  women  regard  the  stranger  who 
afterwards  becomes  a  rival.  She  felt,  without  acknowledg 
ing  it  fully  to  herself,  that  there  was  a  strain  in  her  son's 
nature  to  which  that  glowing  mouth  of  Phoebe  that  she  so 
disliked  would  appeal  mightily, — should  nature  disarm  him 
of  his  cynicism  in  some  soft  May  moment. 

She  was  beginning  to  be  sure  that  she  had  acted  very 
stupidly  in  not  asking  the  girl  to  World 's-End  as  Owen 
had  wished, — then  this  absorbing  painting  of  "Pandore  et 
le  Genie  du  Coffre"  would  have  been  done  in  the  old  ter 
raced  garden  under  her  own  eye.  Even  when  she  had  not 
been  present,  she  could  have  seen  them  from  her  windows. 
There  was  nothing  like  a  garden  in  view  of  the  front  win 
dows  for  checking  undue  sentiment  in  the  young.  Now,  at 
that  tumble-down,  picturesque  old  place,  Nelson's  Gift,  the 


WORLD'S-END  81 

garden  was  tucked  away  in  tangled  shrubbery,  like  a  rose 
in  a  light-o'-love's  hair.  Old  Mr.  Nelson  was  more  or  less 
of  an  invalid — he  would  never  sit  out  of  doors  with  them, 
or  think  of  the  healthy  diversion  of  afternoon  tea,  or  so 
much  as  dream  of  hobbling  to  a  window  to  see  what  was 
going  on. 

Sally  wrote  to  both  Owen  and  Mary,  asking  them  for 
heaven's  sake  to  try  to  be  at  World 's-End  by  June  at  least, 
instead  of  waiting  for  July ;  that  Richard  was  wholly 
absorbed  in  his  art  and  that  she  feared  a  nervous  break 
down  from  sheer  loneliness. 

In  the  meantime  "Pandore  ct  Ic  Genie  du  Coffre"  was 
progressing  famously.  Even  old  Mr.  Nelson  had  limped 
into  the  garden  once  or  twice  to  note  its  progress.  AVhen 
regarding  it  he  confessed  with  winning  frankness  that, 
though  the  idea  was  certainly  original,  he  considered  his 
living  Phoebe  far  prettier  than  Richard's  "Pandore,"  and 
remarked  that  a  yellow  shift  seemed  to  him  an  odd  garment 
in  which  to  represent  a  Greek  maiden ;  that,  indeed,  if  his 
memory  did  not  fail  him,  yellow  had  been  worn  as  mourn 
ing  by  the  Hellenes. 

And  really,  so  delicious  did  Phoebe  look  in  the  slim 
robe  of  golden  tissue  alluded  to  by  Mr.  Nelson  as  a  "  yellow 
shift,"  with  her  white,  white  arms  shining  through  the 
delicate  stuff  and  her  loosened  hair  making  its  gold  seem 
tarnished, — that  Richard  had  come  again  and  again  to  con 
gratulate  himself  on  the  congenital  coldness  of  his  tempera 
ment. 

"Any  other  man  would  have  kissed  that  mouth  and 
forgotten  to  paint  it  long  ago,"  he  thought, — and  oddly 
enough  this  self-congratulatory  thought  had  at  the  same 
moment  roused  in  him  a  stinging  desire  to  taste  those 
lips  himself,  if  only  for  a  fleeting  instant.  And  it  was 
the  dread  of  interfering  with  his  art,  not  even  a  passing 
thought  of  consideration  for  Phoebe,  that  restrained  him. 

As  for  Phoebe,  her  love  for  Richard  was  grown  to  such 
a  pass  that  she  could  not  think  of  him  as  a  separately  dis 
tinct  entity.  lie  seemed  in  some  strangely  beautiful  way 
to  be  herself,  and  she  him.  She  would  have  liked  him  to 
be  something  rarer,  nearer,  more  mystically  knitted  to  her 
than  a  lover. — She  would  have  liked  to  think  that  a  blazing 
star  had  been  born  somewhere  in  space,  and  that  out  of 
one  half  God  had  created  her,  and  out  of  one  half  Richard, 
and  that  their  love  would  fuse  them  into  one  blazing  star 


82  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

again.  But  it  was  only  the  heart  in  her  that  was  a  poet 
and  not  the  mind,  so  that  she  could  only  thrill  with  those 
lovely  emotions,  not  put  them  into  words  even  for  her 
self.  In  that  deep  heart  she  held  Richard  as  a  still  pool 
holds  the  sky,  its  clouds,  its  lightnings  and  its  stars.  All 
of  Richard's  moods,  dark  or  fair,  were  dear  to  her,  and  to 
his  wild  theories  she  had  grown  accustomed.  It  would  all 
be  well  one  day,  when  he  took  her  in  his  arms — then  he 
would  see  the  truth  of  love,  and  that  truth  would  make 
him  free  as  he  had  never  been  before  even  in  his  fondest 
dreams  of  freedom;  while  the  blazing  star  of  their  united 
love  would  light  his  path  forever  and  all  shadows  would 
flee  away. 

One  late  afternoon  a  sudden  thunderstorm  kept  him  at 
Nelson's  Gift  for  the  night.  It  seemed  a  sort  of  cloud 
burst  ;  fences  were  swept  away,  cattle  drowned,  the  Green- 
Flower  became  an  ugly  torrent  impossible  to  ford.  Then, 
about  nine  o  'clock,  a  southwest  wind  sprang  up,  the  clouds 
were  herded  over  the  mountains,  stars  began  to  glimmer, 
and  presently  the  soft,  clear  shoulder  of  a  naked  moon 
slipped  over  the  horizon.  But  the  thrumming  of  the  once 
placid  brook,  now  a  ruddy  cataract,  at  the  foot  of  the 
garden  told  what  the  larger  streams  must  be,  so  all  thought 
of  returning  to  World  's-End  that  night  was  put  aside,  and 
Richard,  in  one  of  the  sporadic  bursts  of  amiability  which 
overtook  him  through  life,  sat  down  to  a  game  of  chess 
with  Mr.  Nelson. 

Phoebe  had  some  yards  of  soft  white  stuff  to  hem  for  a 
little  frock  that  she  was  making.  She  came  and  sat  near 
them  with  her  work,  under  the  soft  light  of  an  oil  lamp, 
and  the  grey  kitten,  the  only  child  of  its  tortoise-shell 
mother,  jumped  thistle-footed  into  her  lap  and  daintily 
made  a  nest  for  itself  among  the  soft  folds. 

Ac  Phoebe  sat  there,  still  as  a  white  mouse  so  as  not 
to  disturb  the  chess-players, — with  her  pretty  hand  flying 
regularly  out  at  intervals,  followed  by  the  obedient  thread, 
and  capped  by  the  worn  gold  thimble  which  had  been  her 
mother's,  she  was  thinking: 

"Some  day  we  shall  sit  like  this  in  our  own  home,  and 
I  shall  be  sewing  on  something  for  Richard. ' '  This  thrill 
ing  fancy  so  moved  her  that  she  let  her  energetic  little  hand 
rest  on  the  grey  kitten  for  a  moment,  while  her  lips  parted 
and  her  eyes  grew  dark  and  vague. 

Richard,  glancing  up  from  the  game,  which  he  played 


WORLD'S -END  80 

well  and  had  difficulty  in  arranging  so  that  Mr.  Nelson 
should  seem  to  win  by  skill  and  not  by  the  sheer  stupidity 
of  his  opponent,  noted  this  look,  and  thought  to  himself : — 

' '  That  child  is  as  passionate  as  a  Sicilian.  It  would  take 
skill  and  coolness  to  play  with  that  flame  without  burning 
oneself." 

Phoebe's  eyes  happened  to  meet  his  gazing  at  her.  Her 
lips  parted.  Her  spirit  seemed  to  flow  from  them  with 
her  breath  and  touch  him  like  perfume.  He  shivered 
slightly.  It  was  odd,  but  Phoebe  certainly  moved  him 
against  his  will  at  times.  Yet  it  was  pleasant,  too,  and 
for  him,  of  course,  there  was  no  danger. 

"Phoebe,  my  dear,"  said  her  father.  "There  is  a  strong 
draught  from  that  window.  I  feel  it  myself,  and  Mr. 
Bryce  shivered  just  then." 

Richard  turned  his  attention  to  his  queen,  who  was  in 
check,  and  Phoebe  rose  silently  and  closed  the  window, 
shutting  out  the  rain-quickened  scent  of  honeysuckle  and 
damask  roses. 

"When  prayers  were  over  and  Mr.  Nelson  had  said  good 
night,  Phoebe  handed  Richard  his  bedroom  candle  in  an 
old  silver  candlestick  with  snuffers  neatly  laid  beside 
it. 

"Your  room  is  there,"  she  said,  pointing  upwards,  as 
they  stood  together  in  the  quaint  octagon  hall.  "Just  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  to  your  left.  I  sleep  down  here  so 
as  to  be  near  Father,  because  the  servants  stay  in  'the 
quarters'  at  night.  If  you  want  anything,  will  you  please 
call  me  and  not  father  ?  When  he's  waked  at  night  he  can't 
go  to  sleep  again.  That  is  my  room,  on  the  right,  the  one 
with  the  fan-light  over  the  door." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Richard,  taking  the  candle,  "but  I'm 
sure  I  shan't  need  anything.  Hark!  "What  a  wind!" 

"Yes.  And  hear  the  brook.  It  sounds  like  muffled 
drums." 

A  window  shutter  crashed  to.  There  was  a  tinkle  of 
falling  glass. 

' '  Oh !  dear — I  must  run  to  see  to  the  windows, ' '  cried 
Phoebe. 

All  night  long  the  great  wind,  coming  whence  and  blow 
ing  whither  no  man  knew,  beat  with  its  soft,  wild  pinions 
against  the  aged  house.  The  staunch  walls  thrilled  with  its 
impact,  and  now  and  then  a  timber  creaked  as  in  a  buffetted 
ship.  High  above,  down  steeps  of  black-blue  air,  a  frantic 


84  WORLD'S -END 

moon  fled  through  the  tattered  wrack.  Now  Richard's 
whitewashed  walls  shone  like  a  bleached  shell  with  her  livid 
radiance,  now  became  dim  again.  He  turned  and  turned 
uneasily  on  the  old-time  bed  with  its  mattress  of  hair  laid 
upon  plump  billows  of  goose-down.  Though  he  had  opened 
both  windows  wide  and  fastened  back  the  Venetian  blinds, 
the  warm  air  that  had  gathered  all  day  beneath  the  low 
roof  was  not  dispelled  by  the  outer  burly.  A  strong  smell 
of  brown  Windsor  soap  filled  the  room.  Suddenly  he  felt 
as  though  he  were  smothering.  He  got  up  and  went  to  the 
window,  leaning  far  out,  so  that  the  wind  played  roughly 
with  his  sleek  hair.  And  the  sight  from  this  window  was 
so  lovely  that  he  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  there  gazing 
at  it. 

Below  him  lay  Phoebe's  garden,  now  sprayed  with  the 
flying  foam  of  rose-petals ; — beyond  the  soft,  breastlike  pas 
ture  lands,  all  bathed  in  moonlight;  beyond  these  Holly- 
brook  Wood,  its  drenched  foliage  tossing  silver  plumes  in 
the  warm,  wild  wind  that  was  like  Sirocco. 

But  it  was  the  garden  and  the  untrimmed  lawns  around 
it,  with  their  clusters  of  guelder  rose-shrubs,  like  girls  in 
white  gowns  crouching  from  the  blast,  that  seemed  to  him 
enchanting. 

What  a  night  to  sit  in  a  stuffy  room  filled  with  the  odour 
of  brown  Windsor  soap ! 

Now  the  wind  seemed  lulling.  It  came  in  languid  ripples 
all  sweet  with  scents  of  rain-washed  earth  and  flowers.  Sud 
denly  a  mocking-bird,  bewitched  by  that  white  moon,  began 
its  song  of  wanton  ecstacy. 

Richard  started  up  as  though  the  bird  had  called  to  him, 
and  flung  on  his  clothes.  He  could  not  stand  it  another 
moment.  He  wrould  go  out  into  this  night  so  evidently 
created  for  poets  and  lovers  and  the  free  souls  of  winged 
things.  He  looked  at  his  watch  in  the  moonlight.  Three 
o'clock! — he  must  have  dozed  a  little,  after  all.  In  two 
hours  the  dawn  would  break. 

He  went  cautiously  down  the  old  staircase,  stopping  and 
listening  when  a  step  creaked  under  his  tread, — but  nothing 
stirred.  Somewhere  in  the  hall  below  a  mouse  had  got 
hold  of  some  little  hard  object,  one  of  Phoebe's  spools, 
probably,  and  rattled  it  against  the  wainscotting.  Rattle, 
rattle  .  .  .  silence.  Rattle,  rattle  .  .  .  silence.  He  stole 
on,  past  Phoebe's  door,  having  in  his  mind  a  picture  of  a 
young  girl  sleeping  daintily  between  the  heavy  goldwork 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  8r 

of  two  long  braids.  Another  moment  and  he  was  outside, 
in  the  splendid  vacancies  of  the  night. 

Here,  too,  all  was  utter  silence  save  for  the  thrumming 
rush  of  the  brook  at  the  hill's  foot,  and  the  tank-tonk  of  a 
cow-boll  in  a  distant  pasture.  The  mocking-bird  paused  for 
an  instant.  Richard  trod  on  mats  of  rose-leaves,  arid  was 
forced  to  step  aside  here  and  there  because  of  great  acacia 
boughs  which  had  been  blown  down.  And  again  the  fierce, 
soft  wrincl  rose  from  its  crouching,  and  quickened  the  moon 
lit  garden  with  its  breath. 

And  Richard  thought  of  Phoebe,  daintily  sleeping  be 
tween  her  golden  braids,  and  of  how  she  would  exult  in 
such  a  night. 

He  glanced  towards  her  window  above  the  low  hedge  of 
lilacs,  and  saw  that  it  had  become  a  dim,  yellowish  square 
in  the  grey  wall.  Then  she  too  \vas  awake.  How  wonder 
ful  it  would  be  to  mix  the  music  of  that  living  harp  with 
the  soft  wildness  of  a  night  like  this! — He  went  close  to 
the  window  and  looked  up.  Something  stirred  softly 
within,  like  a  bird  stirring  the  foliage  among  which  it  rests. 
Then  a  slight  shadow  passed  between  him  and  the  white 
curtains. 

Richard  pressed  in  among  the  wet  lilac-leaves  and  put 
his  hand  on  the  sill  of  the  window.  "Phoebe!"  he  said 
softly,  "Phoebe!" 

All  was  still,  then  a  low  voice,  very  startled,  said : 

"Richard!  ...    Is  it  you?" 

"Yes,  Phoebe,  dear.  The  night  is  so  wonderful  and  it 
will  soon  be  day  now.  Come  to  your  window  and  see  how 
wonderful  it  is." 

Stillness  again,  a  long  pause,  then  Phoebe's  hand  drew 
back  the  curtains,  and  he  saw  her  face,  very  small  and 
childish  in  the  moonlight  under  the  dark  gold  of  her  hair, 
parted  and  braided  for  the  night  as  he  had  fancied. 

"Look."  he  said,  sweeping  his  hand  towards  the  moon- 
enchanted  garden,  "there  is  white-magic  at  its  whitest  and 
most  magical.  .  .  .  How  shameful  to  sleep  through  it! 
..."  He  pointed  towards  the  great  moon.  "There  she 
is  ...  the  real  Circe  in  all  her  splendour,  and  men  sleep 
at  her  feet  like  cosy  swine.  Come  out,  Phoebe!  Come  out 
into  this  wonder.  Let  us  do  homage  to  Selene  in  the  wild 
dawn  like  two  Greeks  of  old." 

"But,"  said  Phoebe,  hesitating  softly,  "the  dawn  has  not 
come  yet,  Richard.  It  would  seem  so  .  .  ." 


86  WORLD'S-END 

"Ah,  Phoebe,  dear,"  he  pleaded,  "are  you  going  to  let 
old  stepdame  convention  rob  you  of  this  marvellous  hour? 
— See,  dear,  it  must  be  nearly  four  o'clock.  Look  at  your 
watch.  .  .  .  One  hour  till  dawn  .  .  .  one  lovely,  unique 
hour  .  .  .  together.  The  rain  is  so  warm  and  fragrant  on 
the  grass  that  it  can't  harm  you.  .  .  .  You  will  be  like  a 
wood-nymph  walking  through  the  dew  to  whiten  her  slim 
feet.  Come,  Phoebe !  Ah,  come.  .  .  .  You  are  above  such 
silly  Grundyisms.  ..." 

And  still  Phoebe  hesitated,  holding  the  curtains  shyly 
before  her  figure  in  its  white  nightdress. 

"Phoebe,"  said  Richard  in  a  low  voice  full  of  wounded 
reproach,  "can  it  be  that  you  don't  trust  me?" 

Then  Phoebe  turned  quickly,  dropping  the  thin  curtains, 
which  blew  gently  inward,  as  though  following  her  retreat 
ing  form,  and  he  heard  her  voice,  just  audible,  saying : — 

"Wait.  ...  I'll  slip  something  on  and  be  with  you  in  a 
little  while." 

"I  could  lift  you  out  through  the  window,"  said  Richard 
softly,  but  he  got  no  answer  to  this  suggestion. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  came  stealing  through  the  front 
door, — like  a  shy  ghost  stealing  towards  dawn — from  the 
old  house  that  it  has  prettily  haunted  through  the  night. 
Her  hair  was  now  unbraided  and  pinned  up  loosely  about 
her  head. 

A  soft  gown  of  white  wash-silk  fell  in  straight  folds  to 
her  feet  and  she  had  put  on  little  Chinese  sandals  of  straw 
so  as  not  to  spoil  her  prettiest  slippers  with  the  wet. 

Richard  went  to  meet  her  and  took  her  hand  to  lead  her 
down  the  shallow  steps. 

"You  look  quite  the  Greek  girl,  Phoebe,"  he  said,  smil 
ing,  "only  I  would  rather  that  your  hair  were  free." 

The  wind,  as  if  agreeing  with  him,  here  caught  a  hand 
ful  of  the  loose  masses  and  tossed  it  out  about  her  face. 

Richard  helped  her  gather  it  up  again. 

"How  lovely  you  are  in  the  moonlight,"  he  said  as  he 
did  so,  "you  are  like  a  moon-maiden  yourself, — a  hand 
maiden  of  Selene  slipped  down  to  play  for  a  white  hour 
with  the  children  of  men.  How  do  you  like  our  earth, 
little  moon-maid  ?  Has  she  not  a  f ragrant  breath  ? ' ' 

They  had  walked  on  hand  in  hand,  towards  the  Greek 
temple  of  white  stucco  called  "the  Venus  temple,"  which 
overlooked  her  garden.  All  at  once  he  dropped  her  hand 
and  stood  looking  at  her. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  87 

"Yes,  I  must  paint  you  so,"  he  said.  "Psych©  wander 
ing  after  Eros  left  her.  That  little  temple  will  compose 
beautifully  with  the  rounded  shrubs."  He  took  her  hand 
again. 

"Let  us  see  what  offering  the  storm  has  brought  to 
Venus." 

A  delicate  exultation  filled  him.  This  was  a  rare  adven 
ture,  suited  to  the  subtle,  semi-sensuous,  semi-spiritual  hu- 
;:r/ur  of  a  poet-artist  in  the  twentieth  century.  He  thought, 
v,-ith  a  smile,  oi?  the  uncomplex  childishness  of  the  Greek 
imagination  which  had  pictured  wood-nymphs  as  pursued 
by  Satyrs,  Fauns  and  gods  of  fleshly  form  descending  in 
gold  chariots  from  a  marble  heaven.  Not  even  an  inkling 
had  those  worthies  of  the  possibilities  of  exquisite  mental 
voluptuousness.  How  crass  was  the  average  man's  dream 
of  pleasant  indulgence ! — He  felt  that,  unique  as  were  the 
night  and  the  circumstance,  he  himself  was  even  more 
unique.  And  he  wondered  how  the  delicate  spell  was 
working  in  the  mind  of  the  girl  who  walked  so  gently  be 
side  him,  her  face  a  little  bent  towards  the  earth,  like  the 
faces  of  the  flowers  about  her,  heavy  with  rain. 

But  Phoebe's  thoughts  were  only  the  thoughts  of  count 
less  other  maidens  who  had  walked  with  their  lovers 
through  the  still  heart  of  a  moonlit  night. 

"He — I — together  .  .  .  only  we  two,  in  the  wonderful 

night — together.  He — I Will  it  ever  change?  .  .  . 

Could  it  ever  change  ?  .  .  . 

"It  would  be  better  to  die  now  ...  he  and  I  ...  alone 
together  before  anything  less  beautiful  might  happen." 

They  reached  the  little  temple  and  looked  in.  On  the 
wet  flags  lay  a  drift  of  rose  leaves  and  among  them  a  great 
white  butterfly,  its  pale  wings  pasted  to  the  dark  stones. 

"Look,  Phoebe,"  said  Richard,  bending  over  it,  "look 
what  a  poem  nature  has  created  for  us ! — Here  lies  Psyche — 
dead  in  the  temple  of  Venus." 

"Ah,  poor  little  thing,"  breathed  Phoebe  softly.  "It 
seems  strange  that  it  should  take  a  great  storm  to  kill  a 
butterfly." 

"The  soul  dies  hard,  they  say,"  mused  Richard.  "And 
Venus  is  very  cruel — she  sent  the  storm,  of  course.  Stay 
like  that!"  he  exclaimed,  breaking  off.  "Now  I  have  my 
picture!  Psyche  Pleurant  son  embleme  dans  le  Temple  de 
Venus.  ..." 

But  no  sooner  had  he  uttered  these  words  than  even 


88  WORLD'S-END 

Richard  became  aware  of  the  drolly  artificial  note  struck 
by  the  French  language  thus  spoken  in  the  rustic  sweet 
ness  of  that  wild  Virginian  night. 

As  if  in  especial  derision  of  his  mistake,  the  sweet  song 
of  mockery  broke  forth  again. 

They  stood  silent,  listening,  and  for  a  moment  Richard's 
heart  became  simple  within  him.  He  gazed  at  the  pale, 
absorbed  profile  of  the  girl  beside  him  and  thought :  ' '  How 
lovable  she  is! — If  I  were  an  ordinary  man  I  should  have 
lost  my  heart  to  her  long  ago." 

A  puff  of  wind  blew  her  hair  across  his  face.  It  was 
sweet  as  clover  with  her  own  young  fragrance.  As  Richard 
withdrew  its  silken  clinging  from  his  mouth  his  hand  shook 
slightly.  It  would  be  ...  unique  to  kiss  those  parted 
lips — lightly,  delicately  in  this  strange  hour. 

Phoebe  turned  to  him  as  though  he  had  spoken. 

"Phoebe  .  .  ."he  murmured.  He  still  held  her  hair  in 
his  hand.  He  drew  her  gently  towards  him  by  the  soft 
mesh.  Now  she  was  very  close.  The  warm  fragrance  of 
her  breath  mingled  in  his  nostrils  with  the  scent  of  her  rich 
hair, — and  sweetly,  yieldingly,  she  followed  the  chain  made 
of  her  own  tresses  by  which  he  drew  her  to  him.  "When 
she  was  close  enough  he  lifted  the  long  strands  and  wound 
them  about  his  own  throat.  Their  faces  were  very  near 
together  now,  held  by  that  link  of  living  gold. 

"Phoebe,"  he  whispered,  his  breath  becoming  her  breath. 
She  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  but  stood  quite  still,  and 
her  dark,  rapt  eyes  were  fixed  in  his. 

"Phoebe,"  he  said  again,  and  now  his  mouth  brushed 
hers.  Under  that  faint  touch,  light  and  sharp  as  flame, 
the  girl  seemed  to  slip  downward  like  water  through  his 
arms.  He  caught  and  stayed  her, — his  quickened  heart 
sending  the  blood  in  hot  beats  against  his  ears  and  eyes. 
And  at  the  contact  of  that  young  body,  so  soft,  so  pliant,  a 
sudden  gust  of  overwhelming  passion,  wilder  than  the  wild 
wind,  seized  and  rocked  him ; — a  gust  of  passion,  cruel  and 
relentless  as  are  ever  the  rarely  roused  passions  of  the 
habitually  cold.  The  egoist  in  him  ravened  and  must  be 
fed  at  any  cost  to  anyone.  Bending  his  head  he  kissed  her 
on  the  lips, — holding  her  to  him  until  he  felt  her  young 
breasts  beat  against  his  like  scared  birds. 

To  Phoebe  in  her  inexperience  of  love,  though  deliciously 
startled,  this  seemed  only  a  natural  phase  of  the  wonderful 
overwhelmingness  of  which  she  had  dreamed.  Here  was 


WORLD'S-END  89 

her  master,  her  conqueror,  and  though  these  strange  kisses 
bruised  her  lips,  it  was  fitting  that  a  lover's  caresses  should 
be  different  from  all  others,  even  to  the  point  of  pain.  She 
did  not  struggle,  but  hung  trembling  and  panting  in  his 
arms,  her  eyes  dark  and  dim  under  her  drooped  lids,  like 
those  of  a  carrier  pigeon  that  has  flown  too  far  and  fast. 
Endless  seemed  those  mad  caresses,  endless  the  sweet,  dizzy 
ing  tumult  of  her  heart.  It  was  as  though  life  were  failing 
her — as  though  the  earth  were  but  a  shaken  branch  of  ilow- 
ers  beneath  her  feet.  A  fiercely  sweet,  confusing  music 
seemed  throbbing  all  about  her,  trancing  her,  numbing  her 
senses  too  sharply  tuned. 


XV 

TN  those  days  Phoebe  was  a  primitive  and  a  pagan.  That 
*•  God  was  love  seemed  to  her  a  statement  that  swept 
dogma  aside  in  its  vast  comprehension  of  all  possible  emer 
gencies  of  the  soul.  That  she  kept  her  room,  and  did  not 
see  Richard  before  his  departure  on  the  day  after  the  storm, 
was  but  the  shyness  of  the  bride,  while  the  past  night  floated 
in  sweet,  confused  glimpses  through  her  fancy.  She  was 
Richard's  bride.  Of  course,  she  knew  that  in  the  eyes 
of  men  the  wonderful  wild  sweetness  of  that  moonlit  hour 
would  seem  a  sin,  but  in  the  eyes  of  God  she  wras  sure  that 
she  was  Richard's  bride. 

Richard  rode  away  early  the  next  morning  and  did  not 
come  to  Nelson's  Gift  the  following  day.  lie  sent  a  mes 
senger  to  Phoebe  instead,  with  a  little  box  of  moss-jade  in 
which  was  a  pretty  circlet  for  her  hair,  formed  of 
crysoprase  set  in  old  silver.  On  the  slip  of  paper  which 
lay  with  it  in  the  box  was  written,  in  French — ''For  the 
most  beautiful  hair  in  the  world,  with  my  homage."  (This 
"homages"  was  a  subtle  touch  under  the  circumstances,  he 
had  considered,  and  would  surely  please  her.)  "Unex 
pected  business  calls  me  to  New  York  this  evening.  I  am 
desolate,  but  it  is  absolutely  necessary  for  me  to  go." 

lie  had  written  in  French  for  two  reasons,  one  that  it 
was  easier  to  write  impersonally  in  that  language ;  the 
other  that  in  case  any  one  else  opened  the  box  by  mistake 
they  would  not  understand  the  message  and  Phoebe  could 
translate  as  she  chose.  Mr.  Nelson  had  once  volunteered 
the  information  that  he  knew  German,  but  not  French. 


90  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

When  Phoebe  read  these  words  she  went  as  white  as  the 
paper  on  which  they  were  written,  and  a  doubt,  dreadful 
and  sickening  as  the  first  pang  of  a  mortal  illness,  swept 
over  her.  She  trembled,  and  caught  the  table  edge  for  sup 
port,  gazing  down  at  the  gems  which  seemed  to  stare  back 
at  her,  cold  and  cynical  as  the  eyes  of  little  vipers. 

He  was  going  away.  .  .  .  Going  away  like  that,  without 
a  parting  look  or  word.  .  .  .  And  he  sent  her  jewels  and 
words  in  French  which  he  had  not  even  begun  with  her 
name  or  signed  with  his.  .  .  .  Then,  so  terrible  was  the 
anguish  of  this  doubt,  that  she  tore  it  from  her  heart  with 
all  the  strength  of  her  passionate  young  will.  Of  course, 
Richard  was  true,  they  would  be  married  soon  before  men, 
as  they  had  already  been  married  before  God.  Only  some 
thing  dreadful  could  have  called  him  from  her  at  this 
time.  .  .  .  And  she  wondered  what  might  have  happened 
to  make  his  presence  in  New  York  vitally  imperative.  Per 
haps  Cousin  Owen  had  died  suddenly.  .  .  .  How  sad  that 
would  be.  She  was  so  fond  of  him.  But  no,  she  felt  that 
Richard  would  have  mentioned  it  if  that  had  been  the 
cause  of  his  sudden  departure.  On  her  knees  by  her  bed, 
there  alone  in  her  room  with  the  door  locked,  she  spread 
out  the  sheet  of  paper  and  read  over  and  over  the  French 
words,  as  one  starving  chews  desperately  on  splinters  of  dry 
wood.  "Desole, "  that  meant  "desolate,"  grief-stricken. 
She  had  no  knowledge  of  any  trumpery,  conventional  sig 
nificance  for  the  word.  He  was  "desolate"  because  he  had 
to  leave  her,  but  then  why,  why  such  a  short  message? 
Why  write  it  in  French  that  he  knew  she  only  imperfectly 
understood  ? 

Somehow  his  gift  of  jewels  made  her  shrink  with  a  sick 
distaste,  which  she  could  not  account  for.  If  he  had  only 
sent  her  a  rose  that  he  had  kissed.  If  he  had  only  written 
her  name  and  used  one  of  the  simple  words  that  lovers 
love — "dearest" — "darling."  .  .  .  And  again  that  doubt, 
like  a  shaft  with  poisoned  tip,  struck  through  her  heart. 
What  if  ...  but  so  horrible  was  this  "if"  that  Phoebe 
lashed  herself  with  other  scorpions  to  dull  the  pain  of  its 
sharp  bite.  She  it  was  who  was  disloyal  to  Richard  in  her 
thoughts.  She  was  the  offender,  guilty  of  "Use  majcste" 
towards  her  Prince,  her  King  .  .  .  but  not  to  come  for  one 
parting  word,  one  good-bye  kiss.  .  .  .  Oh,  there  was 
nothing,  nothing  in  all  the  world  of  chance  that  could  have 
kept  her  from  him  at  such  a  time  had  she  been  in  his 


WORLD'S-END  91 

place!  And  once  more  that  wild  "will  to  believe"  brought 
her  up  out  of  the  submerging  doubt  which  had  again  swept 
over  her. 

Suddenly  a  new  pang  assailed  her,— he  had  not  even 
sent  her  his  address  in  New  York.  She  gazed  about  her 
with  hot  eyes.  Every  object  in  the  pretty  room,  so  sweetly 
familiar,  had  grown  strange  and  sinister,  even  menacing. 
The  calm  May  morning,  sparkling  so  freshly,  seemed  to 
glare  at  her  with  hard,  intrusive  aloofness. 

She  got  up  dully  and  locked  the  circlet  away  in  her  chest 
of  drawers,  then,  surprised  by  a  sudden  convulsion  of 
weeping,  sank  down  and  lay  with  her  forehead  against  the 
bare  boards,  sobbing  until  her  breast  ached  with  the  violent 
spasms. 

Meanwhile,  Richard's  state  of  mind  was  not  enviable. 
Until  now  his  superfine  senses  had  been  as  wine  at  dainty 
feasts  of  life.  "What  was  this  heady  torrent  that  had  over 
whelmed  him,  not  blandly  awaiting  his  delicate  sips  in 
pretty  glasses,  but  rushing,  wild  and  frothy  like  the 
vintages  in  legend,  which  some  sorcerer  strikes  from  the 
dry  rock  to  enliven  a  festival? 

Besides  .  .  .  and  here  Richard  stood  quite  still,  and  his 
black  eyes,  brooding  on  disastrous  possibilities,  grew  dense 
and  velvety  as  soot  in  their  opaqueness.  Phoebe  might  even 
be  dreaming  of  marriage,  in  spite  of  all  that  he  had  told 
her  concerning  his  abhorrence  of  that  tie.  Young  girls 
were  like  that.  No,  he  must  certainly  get  away.  These 
disturbing  fires,  deprived  of  all  fuel,  would  die  down  after 
a  few  days  of  absence.  His  sudden  departure  could  be 
easily  explained  to  his  mother.  His  art  called  him — neces 
sary  studies  for  the  Chinese  opera,  which  he  had  so  ne 
glected  of  late.  Then,  too,  his  mother  had  never  liked 
Phoebe.  She  would  find  such  satisfaction  in  the  cessation 
of  his  visits  to  Nelson's  Gift  that  she  would  easily  recon 
cile  herself  to  his  departure. 

How  then  to  deal  with  Phoebe?  All  must  be  gradual. 
He  felt  that  an  infinitely  graded  toning  off  of  his  relations 
with  her  was  the  wisest  coarse.  A  certain  thrifty  shrewd 
ness  showed  him  at  once  that  nothing  positively  must  be 
committed  to  paper.  After  some  hours  of  deep  cogitation 
he  had  thought  of  the  circlet  of  crysoprase  in  his  collec 
tion  of  old  jewels,  and  the  accompanying  note  in  French. 
But  then,  from  New  York  she  would  certainly  expect  love- 
letters.  This  complication  worried  him  gravely  for  some 


92  WORLD'S-END 

time,  but  suddenly  the  riddle  solved  itself,  as  it  were.  He 
would  send  her,  at  intervals  not  sufficiently  far  apart  to 
alarm  her,  bits  of  his  love-poems,  which  she  had  not  seen. 
He  would  alter  them  slightly — no,  slightly  would  not  do 
• — for  Kichard  was  amorously  expansive  on  paper — but  re 
vised  carefully  they  would  be  admirable  substitutes  for 
love-letters  and  wholly  uncompromising. 

With  his  mental  house  in  this  neat  order,  he  went  to  New 
York. 

Two  days  later  Phoebe  received  what  she  believed  to  be 
her  first  real  love-letter  .  .  .  and  from  him! 

Cold  and  startling  as  a  little  snake,  where  a  rose  has 
been  looked  for,  the  first  "revised"  poem  slipped  from  the 
envelope  that  she  had  warmed  with  kisses.  Poor  Phoebe ! 
Her  impulse  was  to  burst  into  tears — but  conquering 
this  desire,  which  she  felt  to  be  childish  and  unreasonable 
when  Richard  had,  of  course,  thought  to  please  her  more 
by  a  poem  than  by  a  mere,  ordinary  letter,  she  set  herself 
to  master  its  meaning.  She  was  pathetically  like  a  child  at 
a  task  too  difficult.  There,  in  the  little  "Venus  temple" 
where  together  they  had  found  the  great,  white  butterfly 
broken  on  the  wet  flags,  she  tried  to  get  some  glow  from 
the  crisp,  gem-like  words  set  in  a  strange,  harsh  form. 
As  if  to  make  it  all  the  more  aloof  and  peculiar,  the  verses 
were  in  French — very  idiomatic — Richard  was  excessively 
vain  of  his  French. 

Phoebe,  the  suppressed  tears  making  her  throat  ache, 
translated,  with  the  help  of  a  little  dictionary  for  which 
she  had  to  return  to  the  house,  words  which  signified,  as 
well  as  she  could  gather,  that: 

"Thou,  my  crumb,  hast  green  eyes  and  hair  of  tortured 
gold."  [She  knew  so  little  French  that  she  read  "ma 
mie"  literally,  and  it  seemed  indeed  a  strange  term  of 
endearment  to  her  sore  mood.]  "Hadst  thou  eyes  tor 
menting  and  golden  and  hair  of  green,  I  could  love  thee 
with  another  love,  more  subtle  and  delicately  venomous. 
Nothing  is  more  beautiful  than  a  wounded  love.  I  would 
strike  blood  from  thy  bird-like  breast  and  drink  it  like 
sweetly  poisonous  wine.  Lovely  art  thou,  my  crumb,  and 
if  thou  hadst  eyes  of  gold  and  hair  of  crysoprase,  I  could 
not  love  thee  more  cruelly  but  I  would  love  thee  with  a 
subtler  love." 

After  she  had  mastered  this,  Phoebe  had  a  moment  of 
despair  in  which  she  wept,  at  last,  as  passionately  as  on  the 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  93 

day  of  his  departure.  She  had  dreamed  all  those  forty- 
eight  hours  of  going  to  sleep  some  night  with  a  letter  be 
ginning  "My  own  Darling"  close  against  her  heart. 

Valiant  had  been  her  fight  during  those  two  interminable 
days  against  that  dreadful  doubt  which  from  time  to  time 
stabbed  her.  But  now  it  was  back  upon  her  like  a  vulture, 
clinging  and  tearing  with  claws  and  beak,  smiting  her  with 
great  black  pinions. 

Not,  how'.-ver,  until  a  fourth  of  those  strange,  epistolary 
poems  reached  her  did  she  suffer  the  assault  of  shame. 
"When  this  fourth  copy  of  French  verse  lay  open  in  her 
hands  she  did  not  even  try  to  read  it,  but,  flinging  herself 
upon  her  bed,  lay  still  as  death,  her  hands  crushed  against 
her  eyes.  And  shame,  like  a  great  vampire,  came  and 
spread  its  heavy,  noisesome  bulk  upon  her,  covering  her 
from  head  to  foot — sucking  her  strength,  sucking,  as  it 
were,  her  very  life.  This  shame  was  so  horrible  that  she 
loathed  her  own  body  lying  there  and  the  touch  of  her 
hands  upon  her  eyes.  She  longed  to  strip  it  from  her  like 
a  soiled  garment,  to  be  loosed  on  the  wide  clean  winds, 
and,  mingling  with  them,  be  freed  from  herself  forever. 

No  tears  came  now.  Shame  scorches  and  withers.  It 
has  no  flood-gates  like  kindly  grief.  And  lying  there,  her 
fingers  causing  bright  spangles  to  swim  on  the  red  dark 
ness  of  her  eyelids,  Phoebe  thought  of  the  day  that  Rich 
ard  had  first  come  to  "World 's-End,  and  of  how  she  had 
gone  early  to  her  mother's  garden  to  read  in  her  worn 
Bible.  Over  and  over  the  words  came  back  to  her — over 
and  over,  over  and  over,  "Keep  my  precious  baby  from 
evil  .  .  .  keep  her  pure  in  thought,  word  and  deed  so  that 
she  may  one  day  see  Thee."  She  struck  herself  on  both 
cheeks.  "It  is  well  that  my  mother  died  before  I  grew 
up." 

Then  came  reaction,  and  her  love  for  Richard,  rushing 
like  an  eager  up  some  still,  sluggish  river,  swept  her  far 
out  on  the  tide  of  desolate  longing.  Though  she  burnt  with 
mortification  as  she  wrote  them,  she  could  not,  even  now, 
refrain  from  sending  occasionally  one  of  the  little  notes  so 
piteously  simple,  which  he  never  answered  save  indirectly 
by  those  artificial  poems  that  she  had  come  to  hate.  She 
grew  so  pinched  that  her  father  prescribed  a  tonic  before 
breakfast. 

Then  one  morning,  while  Phoebe,  sweetly  obedient  in 
spite  of  her  great  trouble,  was  lifting  this  mixture  to  her 


94  WORLD'S-END 

lips,  Fortuna  in  her  grimmest  aspect  came  and  laid  a  heavy 
hand  upon  her  shoulder.  So  intense  was  the  faint  sick 
ness  that  overpowered  her  that  she  sank  to  her  knees  where 
she  stood  before  her  dressing  table,  and  the  pale  red  stuff 
in  the  glass  was  spilt  over  her  night-gown. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  she  thought,  feeling  blindly 
about  her  for  some  support.  "Is  it  death?" 

She  managed  to  drag  herself  to  her  feet  after  a  few 
moments,  but  only  to  be  crushed  down  again  by  that  deadly 
nausea.  Crawling  little  by  little  to  her  bed,  she  lay  there 
in  a  half  stupor  until  Lily,  who  had  twice  rung  the  little 
gong  for  breakfast,  came  to  see  \vhat  could  be  the  mat 
ter. 

Lily  bathed  her  face  with  cologne-water  and  tried  to  get 
her  to  drink  some  coffee,  but  it  was  useless  .  .  .  she  could 
not  swallow. 

She  hoped  that  she  might  be  going  to  die,  and  lay  still 
and  helpless,  feeling  that  she  could  love  God  again  if 
he  would  only  let  her  die.  But  by  one  o'clock,  after  she 
had  drunk  a  bowl  of  Aunt  Patty's  good  chicken-broth  to 
please  her  father,  who  had  come  and  sat  at  her  bed-side 
and  touchingly  fed  her  from  the  spoon  as  though  she  were 
a  little  tot  again  .  .  .  she  felt  so  much  better  that  she 
dressed  and  went  downstairs. 

It  must  have  been,  she  thought,  the  taste  of  the  calisaya 
bark  which  was  so  bitter,  and  the  smell  of  the  nut 
meg  which  dear  father  would  grate  over  the  mixture, 
though  she  disliked  it  so  much.  And  she  sighed  wearily, 
thinking  how  she  had  loved  life  only  seven  short 
weeks  ago,  and  how  death  now  seemed  to  her  the  safest 
refuge. 

But  next  morning  again  she  was  deathly  sick. 

Mr.  Nelson  was  so  troubled  that  he  wished  to  send  for 
their  friend,  Dr.  Patton,  but  Phoebe  pleaded  so  earnestly, 
that,  fearing  to  excite  her  unduly,  he  said,  ' '  well  .  .  .  well, 
Puss,"  and  went  off  downstairs,  his  carpet-slippers  slap 
ping  gently  on  each  bare  step. 

Although  this  horrid  faint  sickness  continued  to  make 
her  first  waking  a  time  of  dread,  the  afternoons  brought 
such  complete  respite  that  Phoebe  thought  she  must  be 
having  a  sort  of  belated  "spring  attack,"  and  convinced 
her  father  of  this  theory,  so  that  Dr.  Patton  was  not  sent 
for. 

It  was  not  until  a  week  later,  that  during  a  visit  to  Mrs. 


WORLD'S-END  95 

Ladd,  the  recipient  of  Mary's  gift  of  silk-scraps,  the  real 
horror  of  her  situation  was  revealed  to  her. 

She  had  been  telling  that  sympathetic  soul  of  the  dread 
ful  way  she  felt  every  morning,  and  Jane  Ladd  had  said: 

"Poor  lamb.  That  cert'n'ly  is  a  shame.  It  sounds 
zackly  ez  if  you  was  a  married  lady !  "Why  my  gal  Louizy, 
she's  a-carryin'  her  eighth  an'  the  sickness  she  do  hev 
ev'y  mornin',  same  as  you,  is  enough  to  make  a  rhinosserer 
cry  for  pity! — Yo'  sickness  sounds  jes  like  that  sickness, 
Miss  Phoebe,  honey.  It  cert'n'ly  do  seem  a  shame  ez  you 
should  go  through  with  it  for  nothiii'. " 

Then  it  was  that  the  world  went  black  to  Phoebe,  and 
only  by  setting  her  teeth  sharply  in  her  hand,  while  pre 
tending  to  lean  her  face  upon  it,  had  she  kept  herself  from 
fainting. 

That  night,  putting  aside  all  pride,  in  her  frantic  terror 
and  distress  she  had  written  the  following  letter  to  Rich 
ard. 

"Dear,  dear  Richard — for  God's  sake  come  to  me.  It  is  a  mat 
ter  of  life  and  death.  Oh!  my  own  dear  Richard.  You  must  come 
to  me  and  at  once.  Don 't  torture  me  by  asking  me  to  make  my 
meaning  clearer.  Only  come,  come,  dear  Richard,  come  quickly,  for 

Christ 's  sake. 

' '  Your 

PHOEBK.  ' ' 


XVI 

ICIIARD  was  in  Newport  when  he  received  this  letter, 
and,  as  he  breakfasted  by  his  bedroom  window,  he 
could  hear  the  strains  of  the  "Tango"  played  by  the  baud 
of  the  Casino  not  far  away. 

The  man  had  brought  his  letters  on  the  same  tray  with 
the  hot-house  grapes,  toast  and  coffee  that  always  composed 
his  morning  meal.  There  wras  a  letter  from  his  mother  with 
the  nag's  head  in  silver  on  the  square  envelope,  some  bills, 
and  Phoebe's  little  narrow,  blue-grey  missive. 

Richard  lit  a  cigarette  before  reading  it.  When  he  had 
done  so,  his  thoughts  came  in  words,  quick  and  plain,  like 
the  thoughts  of  an  everyday  man. 

"God!  I  hadn't  thought  "of  that  ....  What  a  damnable 
mess ! ' ' 

lie  sat  perfectly  still,  staring  at  the  letter  which  he  had 
dropped  again  upon  the  tray,  the  cigarette  smoking  out  in 


96  WORLD'S-END 

a  long  ash  between  his  fingers.  He  sat  there  until  the  fire 
reached  his  fingers,  when  he  jerked  it  out  of  the  window, 
and,  rising,  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room.  All 
the  possible  consequences  of  his  fit  of  May-madness  were 
filing  before  him,  a  ghostly  throng,  stretching  out  like  the 
kings  in  Macbeth  to  the  crack  of  doom.  If  his  uncle  knew 
he  would  surely  disinherit  him  unless  he  married  her.  And 
the  thought  of  being  married  thus  violently,  suddenly, 
against  all  his  fixed  theories,  against  the  strongest  instinct 
of  his  whole  nature,  filled  Eichard  with  a  sort  of  panic- 
terror  and  revulsion.  And,  yet,  he  supposed  that  people 
would  say  he  ought  to  marry  her.  "People!"  when  had 
he  ever  cared  what  "people"  would  say  to  his  actions,  good 
or  bad  ?  But  his  uncle,  that  was  different.  And  his  mother 
— would  she  stand  by  him  if.  ...  Yes,  he  thought  she 
would  stand  by  him  through  anything.  And  Phoebe  her 
self.  .  .  .  He  felt  sorry  for  Phoebe  in  spite  of  his  anger 
against  her — the  sort  of  anger  that  one  feels  against  an 
object  which  has  fallen  and  hurt  one  unwittingly — the 
emotion  which  makes  a  child  strike  the  door  against  which 
it  has  hurt  its  head. 

No,  the  thought  of  marrying  her — of  marrying  anyone, 
was  unbearable,  suffocating,  but  especially  the  thought  of 
marrying  her.  They  had  not  really  an  idea  in  common, 
and,  even  if  they  had,  marriage  was  a  relationship  that 
spoiled  the  subtlest  emotions,  just  as  a  damp  cellar  spoils 
exquisite  fabrics.  And  he  had  a  sickening  vision  of  Phoebe, 
modishly  dressed,  presiding  over  a  well-appointed  table 
in  a  richly  furnished  house  full  of  clamorous  children — 
of  himself  sitting  down  and  rising  up  from  this  table  or 
another  like  it,  endlessly.  His  very  spirit  seemed  to  melt 
like  wet  paper  within  him  at  the  picture.  No — it  must  be 
arranged  some  other  way.  It  could  be  arranged  of  course. 
Men  settled  such  affairs  secretly  and  discreetly  every  day. 
He  was  not  a  callous  bounder  to  leave  her  without  pro 
viding  for  her  in  her  present  situation.  But  how  to  do 
this?  He  would  have  to  persuade  her  to  come  North.  It 
would  be  the  veriest  folly  for  him  to  go  down  there  to  Vir 
ginia.  .  .  .  Would  set  tongues  wagging.  He  must  find 
some  respectable  woman.  .  .  .  Long  Island.  .  .  .  Con 
necticut  ...  a  farm-house  in  Connecticut — he  knew  the 
very  woman! 

He  took  another  turn  and  stopped  mechanically  before  a 
tapestry  of  Susannah.  The  Elders'  faces,  round  and 


WORLD'S-END  97 

chub»y  above  their  white  worsted  beards,  peeped  at  him. 
from  the  yellow  and  blue  foliage  like  the  faces  of  naughty 
schoolboys  who  had  disguised  themselves  in  false  beards. 

"AA'hat  an  idiotic  tapestry,"  he  thought  irritably,  wak 
ing  fcr  a  moment  to  the  offensive  art  of  the  design.  xYiid 
then  a'l  at  once,  between  him  and  Susannah,  rose  the  fresh 
form  of  Phoebe,  with  her  loving  smile.  And  that  sharp 
hunger  of  the  senses,  so  mortifying  in  its  rude  humanness 
to  his  would-be  super-manly  ego,  and  which  had  been  doz 
ing  like  a  drugged  cat,  sprang  up  and  clutched  him.  After 
ail.  .  .  .  But  the  next  moment  revulsion  came  again.  Feel 
ings  w^re  not  in  question  here;  he  must  act  and  act 
promptly. 

He  invented  a  plausible  excuse  for  his  hostess  and  took 
the  train  to  New  York  that  noon. 

The  day  after  next  a  registered  parcel  was  brought  to 
Phoebe,  where  she  lay  fully  dressed  but  white  and  dim- 
eyed  on  her  bed,  in  the  half-darkened  room. 

When  she  saw  the  hand-writing  011  its  cover  her  heart 
seemed  *:o  shut  and  open.  She  stole  from  bed  and  locked 
the  door.  Then  she  cut  the  string,  snipping  it  nervously 
with  her  little  curved  nail-scissors  and  slicing  into  the 
heavy  oil-skin  paper  in  which  the  parcel  was  wrapped.  In 
side  she  came  upon  another  cover  with  many  seals.  On 
this  lay  a  letter — the  first  thickly  filled  envelope  that  she 
had  ever  received  froin  him.  She  started  to  tear  it  open 
with  her  little  cold,  shaking  fingers,  then  thrust  it  in  her 
breast  and  began  to  undo  the  second  wrapper.  She  would 
keep  the  best  for  the  last,  She  only  prayed  dumbly  that 
he  had  not  sent  her  more  jewels.  The  wrapper  was  off 
at  last.  She  lifted  a  fold  of  white  tissue  paper,  then  sat 
staring,  seated  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  the  box  on  her 
knee,  her  hands  fallen  away  from  it  and  lying  loose  at  her 
sides.  The  faint  yet  penetrating  scent  of  fresh  twenty 
dollar  bills  rose  to  her  nostrils.  They  were  in  two  neat 
packages  held  together  by  little  strips  of  white  paper. 
Ever  after,  as  long  as  she  lived,  the  scent  of  fresh  paper- 
money  gave  her  the  dreadful  sensation  that  the  scent  of 
ether  gives  to  those  wrho  have  been  suffocated  for  an  opera 
tion. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  the  next  instant,  and  the  box 
fell  to  the  floor.  One  of  the  little  paper  bands  broke, 
and  the  crisp,  green  bills  opened  like  a  fan  at  her  feet. 
She  stumbled  to  the  window.  Somehow  it  was  hard  to  get 


98  WORLD'S-END 

her  breath.  She  opened  the  shutters  slightly,  and  strug 
gled  for  it,  her  breast  heaving  painfully,  the  hair  aboit  her 
forehead  wet  as  from  a  bath.  When  she  had  at  last 
managed  to  draw  one  deep  breath,  she  sat  down  by  the 
parted  shutters  and,  with  eyes  all  wild  and  brigh;  now, 
began  to  read  the  letter.  When  she  had  finished  it  she 
stayed  quite  still,  as  Richard  had  stayed  by  his  window  in 
Newport,  and  on  her  white  lips  was  a  little  stiff  sir.ile.  A 
dying  marmoset  has  just  such  a  little,  stiffened  sm;le  over 
its  small,  human  teeth. 

It  had  taken  Richard  five  hours  to  compose  the  letter 
that  she  had  just  read.  Its  method  was  elaborate  but  its 
gist  simple.  In  it  he  began — not  with  her  name — mis  com 
munication,  like  all  the  others,  neither  had  her  name  at 
the  beginning  nor  his  at  the  end — he  began  by  an  appeal 
to  a  certain  bigness  and  freedom  of  spirit  in  her  which 
he  said  that  he  had  divined  from  the  very  first.  He  called 
on  her  not  to  bow  her  head  before  imbecile  conventions, 
but  to  have  the  courage  of  her  passion,  and  realise  that 
real  love  can  never  be  bound  by  laws,  any  more  than  the 
great  primal  force  of  a  Samson  could  be  bound  by  green 
withes.  That  to  shear  off  the  beautiful,  wild  tresses  of  love 
with  the  dull  shears  of  law  only  deprived  it  of  all  its 
strength,  and  delivered  it  a  mere  soulless  hulk  into  the 
hands  of  the  Philistines.  He  said  that  now,  at  this  vital 
point  in  her  life,  she  should  rise  above  herself,  and  meet 
love  on  the  high,  joyous,  light-swept  plateau  of  freedom. 
He  bade  her  think  of  Isolde  and  Guinevere  anel  Sappho 
and  Aspasia,  or,  if  she  wanted  an  example  more  staid,  let 
her  recall  the  long  life  of  honour  led  by  Marian  Evans  in 
the  companionship  of  Lewes.  He  reminded  her  that  she 
already  knew  his  theory  of  life  when  they  became  lovers. 
He  appealed  to  her  sense  of  justice  and  stated  that  she 
could  not  but  admit  that  he  had  informed  her  repeatedly 
of  his  overwhelming  aversion  from  marriage  anel  his  fixed 
determination,  under  no  circumstances  (these  last  two 
words  were  underscored),  under  no  circumstances  ever 
to  marry. 

He  said  that  for  him  to  come  to  her  at  this  time  would 
be  madness — since  what  could  he  do  but  take  her  away 
with  him?  And  that,  in  her  present  oversensitive  condi 
tion,  to  have  all  the  filth  of  gossip  spattered  over  their 
linked  names  would  mean  torture  to  her. 

He  assured  her  that,  if  she  would  only  be  as  sweetly 


WORLD'S-END  99 

reasonable  as  he  knew  it  was  her  nature  to  be,  all  could 
be  satisfactorily  arranged.  That  he  was  very  fond  of 
her  and  would  make  every  provision  for  her  safety  and 
comfort.  She  must  not  let  false  pride  stand  in  her  way 
at  this  crucial  point  in  her  life — in  both  their  lives.  But, 
then,  he  was  sure  that  in  her  lovely  nature  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  false  pride,  and  that  she  would  accept  and 
use  the  sum  which  he  forwarded  her  for  immediate  neces 
sities  in  as  frank  and  affectionate  a  spirit  as  that  in  which 
he  sent  it.  Then  followed  directions,  painstakingly  minute, 
as  to  how  part  of  this  sum  was  to  be  employed  by  her.  She 
was  to  go  to  Crowe,  as  though  leaving  for  a  short  visit 
to  the  University  of  Virginia.  Then  she  would  go  on  to 
Charlottesville.  When  she  reached  that  town  she  was  to 
take  a  train  on  the  Southern  Railway,  as  he  had  found 
that  those  trains  went  straight  through  to  New  York  with 
out  any  fatiguing  stop  in  AVashington.  He  would  meet  her 
at  the  New  York  terminus  himself.  Here  followed  a  de 
scription  of  the  "kind  and  perfectly  respectable  woman" 
in  whose  care  he  would  place  her.  He  had  done  this 
woman's  husband  a  service  once,  which  made  her  now  a 
most  valuable  and  dependable  ally.  Afterwards — she  could 
go  to  France  or  Italy  and  he  would  join  her  there.  Rich 
ard  had  reflected  over  this  last  assertion  for  a  long  time, 
and  had  finally  decided  that,  even  if  plans  were  altered 
later,  some  such  promise  was  necessary  to  induce  Phoebe 
to  follow  his  instructions  quietly.  At  least,  she  should 
never  lack  for  every  comfort  and  refinement  in  her  sur 
roundings.  He  was  even  sorry  now  that  he  had  to  send  her 
to  this  plain  farm-house,  but  there  was  no  choice. 

He  wound  up  by  saying  that  she  could  count  on  his 
loyalty  and  affection,  and  must  not  allow  herself  to  be 
come  overwrought  through  anxiety  and  thus  possibly  de 
lay  the  journey  which  it  was  so  vitally  necessary  for  her 
to  make  at  once. 

Richard  had  never  before  written  even  a  page  of  such 
sound,  clear  English  as  composed  this  letter  of  some 
twenty  sheets.  Phoebe  sat  quite  still,  hour  after  hour,  and 
the  little  smile  looked  as  though  pasted  on  her  lips,  for 
it  never  grew  more  or  less,  or  changed  in  any  way. 

At  sunset  she  stirred,  shivered  all  over  once,  then  got 
slowly  to  her  feet.  She  went  to  her  little  greenish  Colo 
nial  mirror  on  its  stand  of  inlaid  mahogany  and,  tilting  it 
forward,  looked  at  her  reflected  face.  As  she  noticed  the 


100  WORLD'S -END 

odd  smile  on  her  mouth  she  passed  her  hand  over  it,  wiping 
it  away.  Then  she  opened  one  of  the  drawers  in  the  mir 
ror  stand  and  took  out  a  box  of  pink  nail-salve.  Carefully 
she  put  a  little  en  either  dead-white  cheek,  then  rubbed 
it  gently. 

"Father  mustn't  see  my  face  like  this,"  she  said  aloud. 
And  her  voice  startled  her,  so  that  she  dropped  the  box 
of  nail-salve.  It  rolled  under  the  dressing-table  and  she 
let  it  lie  there. 

Then  she  went  and,  shivering  again  all  over  as  she 
touched  them,  lifted  the  bills  and  packed  them  neatly 
away.  Her  eyes  were  wide  and  still  very  bright  and  wild, 
but  her  fingers,  though  cold,  did  not  shake  any  longer.  She 
found  a  piece  of  clean  wrapping-paper  and  did  the  par 
cel  up  in  it.  Next,  taking  out  the  box  which  held  the  cir 
clet  of  crysoprase,  she  wrapped  that  also  with  slow  care, 
and  then  wrote  Richard's  club  address  (the  only  one  that 
he  had  sent  her)  across  the  top  of  both.  Under  it  she 
printed  "By  Registered  Post."  Then  she  took  his  letter 
and  sat  down  again  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  with  it  in  her 
hand.  Presently  she  rose,  lighted  a  candle  and,  taking  out 
the  hearth-screen  of  old  glazed  blue  wall-paper  with  its 
edge  of  strawberry-flowers,  burnt  the  letter,  sheet  by  sheet, 
in  the  empty  fire-place. 

When  this  was  done  she  replaced  the  screen  and,  going 
noiselessly  downstairs,  passed  on  tiptoe  the  room  where  her 
father  was  at  work,  and  went  out  of  the  house  towards 
Hollybrook  Wood. 

In  the  heart  of  the  wood  she  stopped,  and  sinking  on 
a  cushion  of  green  moss  with  its  little  red  fungi  that  she 
used  to  think  the  fairies'  cups,  she  leaned  back  against  a 
great  oak,  and  let  her  arms  trail  at  her  sides.  She  looked 
up  into  hanging  caverns  of  dark  leaves  and  thought  of 
nothing — unless  the  conviction  "those  are  leaves  .  .  .  they 
are  moving  a  little  ...  the  breeze  moves  them  .  .  .  that 
pink  between  them  is  the  sky  ...  it  is  the  sunset,"  unless 
these  convictions  could  be  called  thought. 

At  one  o'clock  that  night,  rising  from  the  bed  on  which 
she  had  lain  down  without  undressing  and  still  with  that 
strange,  stiff  numbness  of  mind  and  flesh  upon  her,  Phoebe 
wrote  a  second  letter  to  Richard.  It  was  in  short  sen 
tences,  very  bare  and  simple,  and  it  had  neither  his  name 
at  the  beginning  nor  hers  at  the  end,  after  the  fashion  he 
had  shown  her. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  101 

She  said  that  she  returned  the  money  because  it  was 
impossible  for  her  to  use  bis  money.  That  she  was  sorry 
if  this  offended  him  but  it  was  her  feeling  and  would  not 
change.  That  what  he  asked  her  was  to  break  her  father 's 
heart  in  his  old  age.  She  could  not  do  that  no  matter  what 
happened  to  her.  She  said,  "If  you  were  to  marry  me 
I  would  leave  you  entirely  free.  I  would  not  even  ask  to 
be  with  you. ' '  And  she  begged  him  to  excuse  her  for  writ 
ing  such  a  short  letter,  but  that  her  head  felt  strange.  ' ;  If 
you  marry  me, ' '  she  wrote  again,  ' '  I  will  worship  you,  but 
I  will  never  even  ask  to  see  you  afterwards  if  you  do  not 
wish  it." 

Then  she  herself  took  the  two  parcels  and  the  letter  to 
Crewe  the  next  afternoon,  driving  "Killdee"  in  the  little 
"jumper"  which  they  used  to  send  for  the  post,  for  she 
felt  too  strange  and  numb  still  to  think  of  riding. 

This  letter  brought  from  Richard  another  even  more 
vehement  than  the  first.  This  time  he  enclosed  a  fifty- 
dollar  bill,  telling  her  that  her  attitude  was  sheer  madness; 
that  if  she  would  only  follow  his  directions  their  unwedded 
love  could  be  made  so  fair  a  thing  that  her  father's  recon 
cilement  to  it  would  be  only  a  question  of  time.  He  did 
not  reflect  while  writing  this  last  sentence  that ' '  a  question 
of  time"  in  reference  to  a  rather  infirm  old  man,  nearly 
eighty,  had  its  ironical  aspect.  He  conjured  her  by  her 
affection  for  him  (Richard)  and  out  of  regard  to  herself 
to  come  at  once  to  New  York,  where,  as  he  had  said  be 
fore,  he  would  be  waiting  for  her  at  the  station.  Two  days 
later  he  received  an  envelope  with  the  Crewe  postmark,  in 
which  he  found  the  fifty-dollar  bill  and  half  a  sheet  of 
paper,  on  which  was  written  in  Phoebe's  round,  girlish 
hand,  "I  cannot  do  it,  Richard." 

Again  Richard  wrote,  and  again  the  fifty-dollar  bill  went 
on  its  travels  between  New  York  and  Virginia.  It  was 
returned  as  before,  but  this  time  there  was  no  writing 
with  it. 

Richard  became  frantic  with  apprehension.  A  dark 
anger  against  Phoebe  burned  at  his  heart.  God  only  knew 
whether  people  were  not  already  talking.  This  delay  was 
criminal.  He  had  no  knowledge  of  how  soon  such  things 
became  apparent  to  the  eyes  of  other  women.  He  wrote 
again.  When  five  days  had  gone  by  without  any  answer 
from  the  girl,  he  decided,  after  a  sleepless  night,  to  write 
and  make  a  clean  breast  of  the  whole  affair  to  his  mother. 


102  WORLD'S-END 

She  knew  him  as  no  one  else  had  ever  known  or  would 
know  him.  When  she  realised  how  impulsive  had  been  his 
fault,  how  horrible  and  deliberate  might  be  its  conse 
quences  to  his  whole  life,  she  would  intervene,  bring 
Phoebe  to  reason  (though,  of  course,  she  would  not  follow 
his  plan  for  a  reunion)  and  prevent,  in  some  way,  all  pos 
sibility  of  so  disastrous  a  marriage.  And  yet  ...  he 
was  not  so  sure,  after  all,  of  what  would  be  his  mother's 
ideas  on  the  question.  She  had  rigid,  old-fashioned 
notions  on  the  subject  of  "honour"  and  family.  Phoebe 
was  a  kinswoman,  though  distant.  It  was  possible  ...  he 
shivered.  .  .  .  Yes,  now  he  thought  it  quite  possible  that 
his  mother  might  insist  on  his  marrying  the  girl. 

He  thought  and  thought  over  this.  The  hatred  of  mar 
riage,  especially  of  this  marriage,  had  grown  into  an  obses 
sion  with  him  during  the  past  two  weeks.  He  felt  that  he 
would  rather  be  dead  than  married  to  Phoebe — and  lie 
was  ardently  attached  to  life. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  something  that  had  passed  be 
tween  him  and  another  man  in  Newport.  This  man,  Her 
bert  Stokes  by  name,  had  hailed  him  one  morning  at  the 
"Casino." 

"Hullo,  Bryce,"  he  had  said.  "Hear  you're  off  on  a 
Chinese  opera.  I'm  off  to  China  itself  in  two  weeks. 
Better  come  along  and  tuck  in  local  colour  for  the  opera. ' ' 

Richard  would  have  liked  to  go  very  well,  but  not  at 
that  time,  and  not  with  Herbert  Stokes.  However,  being 
rather  interested  in  the  notion,  he  had  questioned  Stokes 
about  his  plans.  Stokes  intended  to  sail  from  Brindisi  to 
India,  despite  the  season,  thence  to  Hong  Kong. 

"Come  along,  old  chap,"  he  had  urged  (he  thought 
Richard  and  his  theories  great  fun),  "I'll  give  you  a  bunk 
in  my  cabin.  I  sail  the  28th  of  June  in  the  'Wilhelm  der 
Grosse, '  a  capital  boat.  Come  along." 

Richard's  heart  went  very  fast.  Today  was  the  26th 
of  June.  He  could  post  the  letter  to  his  mother  on  the 
27th  and  sail  the  day  that  she  received  it.  He  would  add 
a  postscript  to  say  that  Stokes  had  offered  to  share  his 
cabin  with  him,  and  that  it  was  such  an  opportunity  to 
study  Chinese  music  in  the  land  of  its  origin  that  he  had 
felt  he  must  not  refuse.  He  would  say  that  he  thought 
she  could  manage  everything  better,  really,  if  he  were  out 
of  the  country. 

Richard  felt  that  he  was  doing  a  dastardly  thing,  an  act 


WORLD'S-EJSTD  103 

of  the  most  ruthless  and  cowardly  selfishness  both  towards 
Phoebe  and  towards  his  mother, — that  is,  he  felt  the  dis 
comfort  which  such  actions  cause  even  to  the  doer,  but 
he  veiled  the  bare  bones  of  fact  from  himself  with  swad- 
dlings  of  sophistry. 

Yes,  once  he  was  actually  out  of  the  country  on  a  pro 
longed  trip  like  that,  Phoebe  would  be  compelled  to  rea 
son,  and  he  could  trust  his  mother's  pride  to  keep  such 
a  secret  inviolate,  especially  from  his  Uncle  Owen. 

He  wrote  the  letter,  posted  it  as  he  had  planned,  on  the 
27th,  and  on  the  2Sth  sailed  with  Stokes  for  Naples. 


XYII 

TOURING  those  five  days  of  her  silence  Phoebe  had  gone 
•*-''  through  almost  every  phase  of  torture  that  her  situa 
tion  could  devise.  Only  one  throe  had  as  yet  been  spared 
her — hatred  of  the  man  whom  she  had  loved  so  wildly.  And, 
to  save  herself  from  the  dreadful  possibility,  she  began  to 
lay  to  her  own  account  all  that  had  happened.  Yes,  it 
was  cruel,  terribly  cruel  of  him  to  remind  her  that  she  had 
known  well  his  views  of  life  before  giving  herself  to  him 
wholly — but  it  was  just.  She  had  known  and  rebelled 
against  them.  And  she  recalled  the  day  they  had  almost 
quarrelled  about  the  Brownings,  and  the  feeling  of  de 
jected  sadness  that  had  crept  over  her  at  his  jeering  words, 
''They  took  a  great  passion  by  the  nape  and  made  it  re 
spectable." 

Yes.  she  had  tied  the  bandage  warm  with  love's  eyes 
tight,  tight  about  her  own.  But  then,  he  also  had  known 
her  views,  simple  as  they  were.  Surely  he  could  not  have 
thought.  .  .  .  Yet  as  surely  he  had  thought  her  light,  else. 
.  .  .  And  hot  shame,  like  a  breath  from  the  furnace  of 
degradation,  would  sweep  her  from  head  to  feet.  Oh.  if  it 
were  true,  that  he  did  not  love  her  .  .  .  were  not  her  father 
so  old  and  so  fond — she  would  rather  die  than  be  married 
to  him.  But  then,  in  this  wrong,  strange  way,  he  did  love 
her.  He  would  not  urge  her  to  come  to  him  if  he  had  no 
love  for  her.  .  .  .  Then  she  thought  of  the  little  box  of 
fresh,  green  bills,  of  the  fifty-dollar  note  that  had  gone 
back  and  forth  between  them  so  often,  and  again  sliame 
withered  her. 

Yet  it  was  not  possible  that  this  was  all  ...  this  dread- 


104  WORLD'S-END 

ful  silence,  in  which  she  seemed  struggling  like  one  buried 
alive.  If  she  were  only  dumb  and  patient  a  little  longer  he 
would  come  to  himself  ...  he  would  see  and  realise  that 
she  could  not  strike  down  her  own  father  in  his  old  age 
with  the  cruellest  of  weapons,  dishonour  and  ingratitude, 
— he  would  come  to  his  best  self,  the  noble  self  that  was 
really  he — and  all  would  be  well  again,  and  this  present 
horror  like  a  black  dream  that  has  passed  with  daybreak. 

"When,  however,  the  sixth  day  came  and  went  also  in 
silence,  a  wild,  fierce  rage  awoke  in  Phoebe.  "If  I  were 
alone  in  the  world,"  she  thought,  "he  should  not  marry 
me  now,  though  he  came  crawling.  If  I  had  not  my  father 
arid  the  .  .  .  child  to  think  of  ...  I  would  kill  him  be 
fore  I  would  marry  him." 

And  she  sat  down  suddenly,  trembling  all  over,  for  that 
was  murder  which  she  had  felt  in  her  heart.  But  before 
the  trembling  had  ceased  a  new  passion  almost  as  terrible 
was  upon  her.  The  desire  for  revenge — the  desire  to  make 
him  suffer  something  of  what  she  was  enduring.  And  she 
thought  and  thought  how  she  might  hurt  him — savagely, 
in  a  vital  part,  striking  with  all  her  force.  And  again  she 
trembled  violently.  This  was  more  terrible  than  anything 
that  had  yet  been.  Did  she  then  hate  Richard?  Was 
she,  in  addition  to  her  unspeakable  shame,  going  to  bear 
the  child  of  hatred  ?  No,  no !  She  did  not  hate  him — she 
only  wanted  him  to  share  in  her  suffering.  That  sad  para 
dox  of  passion  which  makes  the  injured  wish  to  torture 
what  they  still  adore  confused  and  wrung  her.  But  her 
anger  did  not  abate;  it  grew  and  grew,  until  by  the  next 
day  it  had  become  an  obsession  with  her. 

As  she  lay  upon  her  sleepless  bed  that  night,  her  eyes, 
that  felt  as  though  scorched  by  the  dry  lids — fixed  upon 
the  freckled  darkness  that  swam  so  dizzyingly  before  her 
— a  wild  solution  leaped  into  her  mind.  His  mother !  She 
could  wound  him  through  his  mother !  More  than  anything, 
she  felt,  it  would  hurt  him  to  have  his  mother  know  of 
this  cowardly  thing  that  he  had  done  to  a  young  girl,  so 
lonely,  so  undefended,  one  of  his  own  kin.  And  she 
thought,  "Tomorrow  I  will  go  and  tell  his  mother.  He 
will  hate  me,  and  she  will  hate  me,  but  he  will  have  to 
marry  me  then.  And  my  father  and  the  child  will  be 
saved  from  dishonour."  She  did  not  think  of  saving  her 
own  honour.  She  felt  that  even  marriage  could  not  save 
that  which  was  so  irrevocably  lost  in  her  own  eyes  since 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  105 

he  had  only  used  her  like  a  toy  which  is  cast  aside  when 
broken. 

The  next  morning  she  dressed  herself  very  carefully  in 
a  plain  white  linen  frock  and  put  on  a  simple  hat  that 
drooped  low  over  her  eyes. 

"I  am  going  to  see  Mrs.  Bryce,  father,"  she  said.  "1 
have  told  Lily  to  be  sure  to  give  you  your  biscuit  and 
Madeira  at  eleven." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  feel 
well  enough  to  go  for  a  visit,  but  you  are  still  very  pale. 
If  you  would  only  consent  to  my  asking  Patton.  .  .  .  ' 

"No,  no,  father,  dear.  Please  ...  I  am  really  very 
well.  I  am  always  a  little  pale  in  summer." 

And,  kissing  him  gently  on  the  cheek,  she  got  into  the 
"jumper"  and  turned  "Killdee V  head  towards  World 's- 
End. 

The  old  man  looked  after  her,  troubled. 

' '  The  child 's  lips  felt  cold, ' '  he  said  to  himself.  ' ' I  must 
really  persuade  her  to  let  me  send  for  Patton." 

Then  he  became  absorbed  in  untangling  a  knot  in  the 
ancestral  intricacies  of  the  Queen  Anne  County  Nelsons, 
and  forgot  how  chilly  those  young  lips  had  felt  against  his 
cheek. 

The  day  was  fair  and  glowing.  Great  silver-breasted 
clouds  swam  on  the  blue  lake  of  air.  In  Ilollybrook  wood 
the  quivering  sun-spots  played  over  her  white  gown  and 
"  Killdee 's"  satin  coat,  in  dapples  of  gold,  light  as  gossa 
mer.  There  was  a  sweet,  warm  scent  of  summer  through 
everything,  mingled  of  the  fragrance  of  fruit  and  flowers 
and  new-cut  grass,  and  the  strong,  fertile  soil  that  bred 
them. 

She  let  "Killdee"  drink  at  the  ford,  and  thought  with 
a  sick  pang  of  the  day  she  had  looked  up  and  seen  Rich 
ard  on  his  black  mare  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  The  dan 
delions,  that  had  seemed  so  like  little  scattered  gold  coins, 
were  long  gone.  The  grass  was  dark  and  unbroken  by 
wild  flowers,  and  some  Southdown  sheep,  looking  too  heavy 
for  their  slim,  black  legs, — with  black  Roman  noses  glued 
to  the  earth,  were  cropping  it,  moving  slowly  as  they 
grazed.  In  their  sun-lit  whiteness  seen  from  a  distance 
they  resembled  other  clouds,  slowly  travelling  over  a  dark 
green  sky. 

"When  Phoebe  reached  the  bridge  at  the  foot  of  the  slant 
ing  lawn  she  stopped  "Killdee"  and  sat  gazing  up  at  the 


WORLD 'S-END 

white  columns  of  the  house  that  was  his  home.  Yes,  here 
he  had  been  born — he  had  played  through  those  rooms  and 
over  this  very  lawn,  when  he  was  an  innocent  little  child, 
before  her  father  and  mother  were  married — before  she 
had  been  even  thought  of.  Where  had  she  been  then?  Or 
had  she  been  anywhere?  And  now  he  was  a  man,  and 
she  .  .  .  she  was  coming  to  tell  his  mother  what  sort  of 
man  that  little,  romping  boy — whom  she  seemed  to  see  so 
plainly — had  grown  into.  But  this  thought  only  lighted 
a  darker  fire  in  her  heart.  Others  should  suffer.  .  .  .  She 
would  not  suffer  all  alone.  She  was  a  consistent  pagan, 
even  in  her  misery,  for  she  had  never  thought  of  God  as 
being  wroth  with  her.  And  Christ  had  been  coldly  kind 
to  the  woman  taken  in  sin.  His  very  perfectness  had  made 
him  seem  far  and  indifferent — but  neither,  she  felt,  would 
His  sentiment  towards  her  be  one  of  anger — a  gentle,  un 
comprehending  pity  perhaps,  and  abstract  pity  could  not 
help  her. 

As  the  old  butler  showed  Phoebe  into  the  cool,  dim  rose- 
parlour,  suddenly,  without  warning,  a  dissolving  fear  came 
upon  her.  "What  was  she  doing  here?  How  had  she  come? 
Was  she  mad?  Would  they  take  her  and  put  her  in  some 
awful  place?  With  a  heart  beating  to  suffocation  she 
rushed  towards  the  door,  which  old  Jonathan  had  closed 
behind  her.  As  she  reached  it  it  opened  again  and  Sally 
entered  quickly,  closing  it  once  more. 

Phoebe  stared  at  her,  shaking  in  all  her  limbs — a  dark, 
thick  cloud  settling  down  about  her.  She  could  see  nothing 
distinctly — only  a  pale  blur  that  she  knew  was  Sally's 
face,  and  the  black  oblong  of  her  tall  figure.  She  felt  an 
arm  catch  and  support  her — she  was  being  led  towards 
a  sofa. 

"Sit  here  ...  I  wrill  bring  you  some  wine,"  she  heard 
a  deadly  quiet  voice  saying,  as  though  far  away.  The  arm 
was  Avithdrawn,  she  felt  a  pillow  slipped  beneath  her  head 
— then  she  fainted. 

When  she  came  to  herself  Eichard's  mother  was  hold 
ing  a  little  bottle  to  her  nostrils  that  made  her  strangle 
and  cough — she  tried  to  rise  upon  her  elbow. 

"Lie  still,"  said  the  deadly  quiet  voice. 

Phoebe  obeyed.     After  a  moment  the  voice  said: 

"You  must  drink  this,"  and  a  strong  wine  was  put  to 
her  lips.  She  obeyed  again,  swallowing  a  few  mouthfuls 
with  difficulty. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  107 

"Now  lie  quite  still  again." 

Phoebe  lay  very  still,  closing  her  eyelids.  Opening  them 
heavily  a  moment  later  she  saw  Sally's  black  eyes  fixed 
upon  her  with  a  strange  expression.  It  was  not  hatred, 
nor  pity,  nor  comprehension,  but  a  something  mixed  of 
all  these,  and  it  was  full  of  great  pain. 

"You  .  .  .  know?"  whispered  Phoebe. 

"Yes,  I  know." 

There  was  silence.  Phoebe  wished  that  she  could  have 
died  before  his  mother  had  looked  at  her  like  that.  Sud 
denly  she  struggled  again  to  rise. 

' '  I  must  go ! "  she  cried  wildly.  Sally  put  a  hand  on 
her  arm.  "You  must  let  me  go!  You  must  let  me  go!" 
There  was  such  desperate  pain  and  such  desolation  in  this 
cry  that  all  of  woman  in  Sally  went  out  to  meet  it. 

She  took  Phoebe's  hand  and  held  it  firmly  but  gently  in 
both  her  own. 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  me  ...  I  want  to  help  you." 

Phoebe's  wild,  bright  eyes  fled  from  her  to  the  door. 
"Oh,  let  me  go.  .  .  .  Please  let  me  go,"  she  panted. 

"You  are  ill.  You  can't  go  now.  Try  to  be  quiet.  I 
want  to  be  your  .  .  .  your  friend." 

"It's  no  use!    It's  no  use!  .  .  .  If  he  doesn't  love.  .  .  ." 

"He  loves  no  one  but  himself,"  said  Sally  in  a  hard 
voice.  "Try  to  be  reasonable.  You  must  help  me  to  help 
you." 

All  at  once  Phoebe  became  very  gentle.  She  looked  up  in 
Sally's  face  with  dark,  mournful  eyes.  "I  didn't  know 
you  were  kin1.."  she  said.  "I  used  to  be  afraid  of 
you.  You  are  kind,  but  under  it  you  hate  me.  ...  I  feel 
it." 

Sally  returned  her  look  this  time  inscrutably.  "You 
must  try  to  be  reasonable,"  she  said  again.  "I  will  do 
all  in  my  power  for  you.  I  have  something  that  I  must 
tell  you.  You  will  need  all  your  courage." 

Phoebe's  eyes  grew  wide  and  wild  again.  Her  white 
lips  framed  the  word  "Why?"  but  no  sound  came  from 
them. 

"THl!  you  try  to  be  quiet  if  I  tell  you? — I  must  tell 
you,  because  suspense  is  worse  than  anything  for  you 
now. ' ' 

"Tell  me,"  motioned  the  white  lips  from  which  no  sound 
came. 

"I  received  a  letter  this  morning  from  .  .  .  my  son," 


108  WORLD'S-END 

said  Sally — she  could  not  bring  herself  to  utter  Richard's 
name  just  then.  "He  sailed  for  the  East  yesterday." 

Phoebe  still  gazed  at  her.  Her  lips  were  parted  but  did 
not  stir  now. 

Sally  came  and  sat  beside  her  on  the  sofa,  as  much  to 
escape  from  that  haunting  look,  as  out  of  pity — though 
she  was  certainly  moved  by  a  profound  pity.  She  put  her 
thin,  soft  palm  over  Phoebe's  interlaced  fingers. 

"Poor  girl — do  you  understand?"  she  said. 

Phoebe  spoke,  articulating  thickly. 

"To  .  .  .  the  East ?"  she  said,  in  a  whisper. 

"Yes  ...  to  the  far  East  ...  to  India  ...  to  China. 
He  will  be  gone,"  she  just  paused  and  then  said  slowly, 
gravely,  "for  over  a  year." 

Phoebe  sat  deathly  quiet.  She  seemed  scarcely  to 
breathe.  Presently  she  said  in  an  almost  inaudible  voice, 
"Thank  you  .  .  .  for  telling  me." 

Something  in  that  deathly  stillness  alarmed  Sally.  She 
put  her  hand  on  Phoebe's  shoulder  this  time.  "You  can 
trust  me,"  she  said.  "Try  to  get  what  comfort  you  can 
from  that." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Phoebe  again.  She  rose,  she  was  not 
trembling  now.  Her  eyes  were  steady.  Sally  rose  too. 
"When  I  have  thought  out  everything  I  will  come  to  Nel 
son's  Gift  and  talk  it  over  with  you,"  she  said.  Suddenly 
her  voice  broke. 

"I  am  very,  very  sorry  for  you,"  she  added.  "And 
..."  she  swallowed,  turning  away  her  face.  "Part  of 
the  pain  is  mine  .  .  .  my  only  son  is  a  coward." 

' '  Good-bye, ' '  said  Phoebe.  She  went  slowly  towards  the 
door. 

The  instinctive  feeling  of  one  woman  for  another  moved 
Sally  from  the  thought  of  her  own  pain.  She  caught  up 
the  glass  of  wine  and  followed  Phoebe. 

"Drink  the  rest  of  this  before  you  go,"  she  urged,  but 
Phoebe,  smiling  mutely,  put  aside  her  hand  and  went  from 
the  dim  room  out  into  the  glowing  day  again. 

Sally  stood  watching,  behind  the  curtains  of  the  Rose- 
room  window,  while  old  Jonathan  handed  the  girl  into  the 
"jumper"  as  though  it  had  been  a  court  coach,  and  David 
put  the  reins  into  her  hand.  She  had  not  gone  with  Phoebe 
to  the  front  portico,  feeling  that  the  girl  would  rather 
leave  that  house  alone.  And.  though  she  never  cared  for 
Phoebe,  something  in  the  listless  lines  of  the  beautiful 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  109 

young  figure,  so  nymph-like,  so  girlish,  went  suddenly  to 
her  heart.  It  was  her  son,  her  son,  who  had  done  this 
dreadful  thing.  The  child  that  would  be  born  of  that 
young  girl  driving  off  there,  so  lonely,  in  the  shabby  little 
vehicle  which  meant  dire  poverty — that  child  would  be  her 
grandchild!  Sally's  heart  contracted  with  pain.  She  put 
up  her  hand  to  it,  and  standing  there  behind  the  shielding 
curtain  broke  suddenly  into  bitter  tears. 

As  Phoebe  came  to  the  stone  bridge  over  the  Green- 
Flower,  she  had  to  draw  aside  for  a  carriage  that  ap 
proached  from  the  opposite  direction.  It  was  Owen,  who 
thought  to  give  Sally  a  pleasant  surprise  by  arriving  a 
day  or  two  before  the  first  of  July.  As  he  passed  Phoebe 
he  started  up  and  was  about  to  call  to  his  driver  to  stop, 
but  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  did  not  see  him,  though 
she  looked  straight  at  him.  Her  face  so  white  and  pinched 
gave  him  a  shock.  Some  intuition  made  him  sink  back 
again,  without  doing  more  than  lifting  his  hat  with  a 
smile  and  a  "How  d'ye  do,  Phoebe?"  Then  he  saw  in 
truth  that  though  she  had  been  looking  so  directly  at 
him  she  had  not  seen  him,  for  she  drove  by  in  silence,  her 
wide,  dark  eyes  now  fixed  on  the  distance. 

Sally  had  barely  time  to  escape  to  her  own  room  as  she 
heard  the  sound  of  wheels  on  the  gravel.  When  Hannah 
came  and  told  her  gleefully  that  Owen  had  arrived  she 
grew  quite  faint.  This  was  dreadful.  She  had  so  counted 
on  4hose  two  days  still  left  her  before  his  coming,  to  set 
tle  all  arrangements  about  Phoebe.  If  Owen  should  ever 
know — should  ever  guess  even  .  .  .  As  deeply,  burningly 
indignant  as  she  was  with  Richard, — as  fierce  and  honest  as 
was  her  scorn  for  his  brutal  cowardice, — still  he  was  her 
only  son,  ardently  beloved.  Owen  must  never,  never  know. 
She  would  go  that  very  afternoon  to  Nelson's  Gift.  Yes, 
she  would  surely  go,  for  not  only  did  Owen's  unexpected 
arrival  fill  her  with  dread,  but  there  had  been  that  in 
Phoebe's  way  of  receiving  those  crushing  tidings  which 
even  now  made  her  sick  with  a  vague,  foreboding  appre 
hension.  She  bathed  her  face  carefully,  and  went  down 
to  greet  him  with  an  affectionate  smile  on  her  lips. 

"Dear  Owen!  How  very,  very  nice!  And  I've  heard 
from  Mary.  She'll  be  here  Wednesday." 

She  quivered  inwardly — a  sort  of  tremor  of  the  vitals 
— when  she  thought  that  she  must  tell  Owen  of  Richard's 


110  WORLD'S -END 

sudden  departure  for  the  East.  Yes,  she  must  certainly 
tell  him,  and  as  soon  as  he  asked  about  Kichard,  for  any 
delay  might  look  suspicious  later  on. 

"You  look  better  than  I  expected  from  your  letters, 
dear,"  said  he,  kissing  her.  "But  tell  me,  what  is  the 
matter  with  Phoebe  Nelson?  I  was  shocked  when  I  saw 
the  child  just  now.  She  looks  very  ill  to  me.  Has  she 
been  ill?" 

Sally's  expression  was  very  natural — not  overdone  or 
too  indifferent. 

"She's  rather  an  obstinate  little  thing,"  she  said.  "I 
was  just  telling  her  that  she  ought  to  be  in  bed  instead 
of  rushing  about  the  country  in  that  rough,  shaky  trap. 
She  has  a  sort  of  slow  fever  that  seems  to  have  hung  on 
from  the  spring.  I'm  going  over  to  speak  to  her  father 
about  her  this  afternoon." 

"Good!"  said  Owen  heartily,  "that's  awfully  nice  of 
you,  Sally.  I'll  just  come  along  too.  She's  a  dear  child. 
I  hate  to  see  her  look  like  that.  I  knew  you'd  grow  fond 
of  her." 

And  he  gave  his  sister's  thin  shoulder  a  little  squeeze 
as  she  stood  near  him. 

When  Owen  said  that  he  would  go  with  her  to  Nelson's 
Gift  that  afternoon,  Sally  felt  again  that  queer  tremor  of 
the  vitals.  She  longed  to  talk  with  Phoebe's  father,  to 
pave  the  way  for  suggesting  to  him  that  what  the  girl 
needed  was  a  complete  change  of  air,  and  that  she,  Sally, 
would  be  delighted  to  have  Phoebe  go  with  her  to  the 
sea-side.  But  this  could  not  well  be  done  if  Owen  were 
present. 

"Poor  Sallykins, "  said  Owen,  looking  at  her  nervous, 
sallow  face  out  of  which  she  tried  hard  to  keep  the  per 
turbation  of  her  thoughts,  "now  that  I've  had  time  to 
see  you,  I  don't  find  you  looking  at  all  well  yourself.  It's 
a  good  thing  Mary  and  I  have  come  to  buck  you  up  a  bit. 
Richard  should  have  looked  after  you  better.  By  the  way 
.  .  .  where  is  Richard?  Hullo,  Wizzy!" 

"Wizzy  was  one  of  Sally's  strongest  aversions,  but  she 
had  never  welcomed  anything  more  gladly  than  she  did 
now  the  advent  of  that  desperately  excited  little  dog,  who 
came  sliding  and  slipping  amid  a  rattle  of  toenails  down 
the  long  hall.  Hannah  took  care  of  him  during  Owen's 
absence,  and  he  never  entered  "the  big  house"  while  his 
master  was  away,  but  now  that  beloved  scent  had  somehow 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  111 

been  imparted  to  him  from  Hannah's  skirts,  and  he  rushed 
to  welcome  his  god.  fie  whined  and  leaped  upon  those 
adored  legs,  sneezing  with  overwrought  emotion  every  time 
that  he  attempted  a  bark  of  welcome,  and  Owen,  sitting 
down  in  one  of  the  hall  chairs,  lifted  him  to  his  knees. 

Sally  sank  into  another  chair  beside  them,  and  the  re 
lief  of  Wizzy's  presence  brought  her  so  far  as  to  lay  one  of 
her  hands  on  his  little  sleek,  snaky  head.  He  promptly 
growled  and  Owen  laughed,  pinching  his  nose  a  little,  which 
made  him  sneeze  again. 

' '  Dogs  always  know, ' '  he  said,  ' '  blandishments  from  their 
enemies  never  deceive  them." 

' '  But  I  'm  not  '  an  enemy ' — I  don 't  dislike  them.  I  only 
don't  care  to  have  them  too  near  me." 

"Evon  Wizzy  is  laughing  at  that  lame  explanation," 
said  Owen,  and  indeed  Wizzy  did  seem  to  be  grinning  sar 
donically  at  Sally,  with  his  tongue  hanging  out  to  the 
roots,  and  his  black  lips  edged  as  with  "pinking"  near 
the  jaws,  drawn  back  almost  to  his  collar. 

"It  isn't  really  the  dogs — it's  the  red  mud  they  bring 
in,"  continued  Sally,  pursuing  desperately  this  subject 
while  thinking,  "I  must  speak  naturally  when  I  do  have 
to  answer.  I  mustn't  speak  too  carelessly. 

"Wizzy,  I  think  you  might  make  friends  with  me,"  she 
coaxed  again,  extending  her  hand — but  again  Wizzy  gave 
his  warning  growl  as  of  a  little  kettle  about  to  bo'il  over. 

"But  where's  Richard? — how  is  he?"  asked  Owen  again. 

"Owen."  said  Sally  gravely,  "I'm  very,  very  much  an 
noyed  with  Richard." 

The  perfect  naturalness  of  her  own  voice  in  saying  this 
astonished  herself. 

"Why,  what  now?"  said  he,  trying  to  keep  out  of  his 
tone  the  mingled  amusement  and  irritation  that  a  new 
vagary  of  Richard  always  caused  him. 

"He  has  gone  away,  Owen.  .  .  .  He  has  gone  off  for  a 
long  trip  to  the  East  .  .  .  most  unexpectedly.  .  .  .  He 
went  with  Herbert  Stokes — who  offered  to  share  his  cabin 
with  him." 

"Herbert  Stokes!"  echoed  Owen,  eyebrows  lifted.  "The 
'all  round  sport'  chap!  What  in  Heaven's  name  possessed 
Master  Richard  to  go  off  with  Herbert  Stokes  of  all  men?" 

"You  know  Richard,  Owen.  He's  perfectly  unaccounta 
ble." 

"What  part  of  the  East?" 


112  WORLD'S-END 

"India  and  China." 

"What  a  time  of  the  year  to  choose!  He'll  suffocate. 
When  did  he  go?" 

"He  sails  today.     He  only  wrote  me  of  it  yesterday." 

"And  he  left  you  all  alone  here  like  that — without 
warning  ? ' ' 

' '  It  was  very  wrong  of  him.    It  has  hurt  me  very  much. ' ' 

Owen  took  Wizzy's  polished  little  head  in  both  his 
hands,  and  looked  down  into  the  adoring,  white-rimmed, 
eyes. 

"Wizzy, "  said  he,  "I  believe  that  you  could  have 
brought  up  Master  Richard  more  wisely  than  your  Aunt 
Sally  and  I  have  done." 


XVIII 

,  who  disliked  driving  as  a  diversion,  rode  "The 
Clown"  that  afternoon,  and  Sally  sat  in  the  carriage 
alone  with  her  thoughts  for  all  those  hot  five  miles.  The 
day  had  grown  very  sultry  and,  when  Owen  rode  back 
to  her  now  and  then,  "The  Clown"  looked  like  a  blue 
horse,  with  the  reflection  of  the  sky  on  his  soaked  grey 
hide.  Distant  storms  were  playing  all  about  them.  The 
muffled  thunder  sounded  like  some  drowsy  jungle-beast 
over  a  half  devoured  kill. 

' '  Do  you  think  we  shall  be  caught  in  a  storm  at  Nelson 's 
Gift?"  she  asked  him  nervously,  once  when  he  rode  up. 

"No  ...  the  'cloud  dun  tun',  as  the  darkies  say. 
They're  catching  it  down  the  river  though.  I  wish  it 
would  come  our  way,  even  at  the  cost  of  a  ducking.  The 
corn  needs  it  badly." 

He  rode  off  again. 

Sally's  thoughts  went  on  and  on,  bruising  her  tired 
head.  "Will  she  see  us?  How  will  she  act  if  she  does? 
...  If  she's  too  ill  will  she  let  me  come  up  to  her  bed 
room?  I  shall  have  to  go  over  again  tomorrow  without 
Owen.  But  I  must  see  her  this  afternoon.  She's  in  a 
dreadful  state.  .  .  .  Anything  might  happen.  .  .  .  She 
might  do  some  reckless  thing  .  .  .  something  awful. "  Sally 
shuddered  with  a  sort  of  hot-coldness  in  the  sultry  air. . . . 
And  suddenly  it  came  over  her  with  desolating  reality  that 
in  this,  the  most  frightful  crisis  of  her  whole  life,  of  three 
lives,  she  was  debarred  from  consulting  Owen,  the  one  of 


WORLD'S-EXD  113 

all  others  on  whom  she  most  leaned,  whose  advice  she 
valued  most. 

"Ah,"  she  reflected  bitterly,  "barren  women  are  saved 
more  than  they  dream  of." 

Mr.  Nelson  was  in  the  green-panelled  room  as  usual, 
his  manuscripts  about  him. 

lie  was  evidently  much  gratified  at  their  visit,  and  espe 
cially  pleased  to  sec  Owen.  His  long  old  face  lighted  up, 
and  his  smile  was  warm  even  over  the  chill  perfection  of 
his  teeth.  Phoebe,  he  said,  would  be  so  distressed  to  have 
missed  them.  She  had  a  bad  headache  and  had  gone  out 
for  a  walk,  thinking  to  relieve  it  by  air  and  exercise.  He 
regretted  that  he  had  not  thought  to  ask  her  in  which 
direction  she  intended  going. 

Sally  was  relieved  and  anxious  at  the  same  time.  She 
was  relieved  that  Owen  would  not  see  Phoebe,  but  her  anx 
iety  was  poignant  when  she  thought  of  the  girl  walking 
alone  in  that  sultry  air,  with  a  possible  storm  gathering 
about  her.  She  tried  to  divert  her  thoughts  by  glancing 
about  the  room,  while  Owen  and  Mr.  Nelson  talked  of  the 
latter 's  book,  and  his  farming.  She  looked  up  at  the  por 
trait  of  Phoebe's  mother  with  its  weak,  candid  brow,  and 
sweet  mouth  shaped  as  by  the  singing  of  hymns.  Sud 
denly  tears  stung  her  eyes  as  she  thought  of  Phoebe  with 
her  mother  gone,  and  only  that  old,  pedantic  scholar,  his 
life  spent  in  rummaging  the  annals  of  the  dead,  to  stand 
between  her  and  evil. 

Bitterly  the  vision  of  Richard,  moving  a  trusted  guest 
and  kinsman  through  that  simple  home,  wrecking  it,  de 
vastating  a  young  girl's  whole  life  and  being — bitterly  and 
cruelly  this  vision  of  her  only  son  rose  before  her. 

1 '  He  is  a  wicked  man, ' '  she  told  herself,  aching  with  pain 
and  anger.  "My  son  is  an  evil-hearted,  wicked  man — a 
common  seducer.  I  have  heard  of  such  things  all  my  life. 
Now  it  has  happened  to  me.  .  .  .  And  I  am  all  alone 
with  this  dreadful  burden  ...  he  has  left  me  and  that 
poor  girl  to  bear  it  all  alone." 

More  tli an  the  bitterness  of  death  was  upon  Sally  as 
she  sat  there  quietly  in  her  cool,  embroidered  grey  gown, 
gazing  at  the  mild,  loving  face  of  Phoebe's  mother. 

But  as  the  moments  passed  and  still  Phoebe  did  not  re 
turn,  or  Sally  bring  up  the  chief  object  of  their  visit, 
Owen  spoke  out  suddenly.  "To  tell  you  the  truth,  sir," 
lie  said,  ' '  we  came  on  purpose  to  talk  to  you  about  Phoebe 


114  WORLD'S-END 

— I  was  awfully  distressed  today  to  see  her  looking  so  pale 
and  run  down." 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Nelson,  "I  have  been  troubled  for 
some  weeks  about  my  little  girl  .  .  .  she  is  an  old  man's 
ewe  lamb,  you  know,"  he  added  and  his  old  voice  shook 
a  little.  "But,"  he  continued,  before  either  of  his  guests 
could  speak.  "She  assures  me  that  she  is  really  better  of 
late.  I  cannot  persuade  her  to  see  Dr.  Patton." 

1 '  We  must  think  of  some  nice  plan  for  her, ' '  said  Sally, 
"a  complete  change  of  air  would  probably  do  her  more 
good  than  any  doctor." 

"Doubtless — doubtless,"  said  Mr.  Nelson  sadly.  He 
was  thinking  that  most  of  the  nine  thousand  paid  last  Janu 
ary  by  Owen  for  Hollybrook  Wood  had  gone  to  lift  the 
mortgage,  and  that  the  rest  was  invested  in  a  bond,  en 
tirely  safe,  but  that  brought  him  in  only  sixty  extra  dol 
lars  a  year.  And  even  this  sixty,  so  urgently  needed  for 
daily  necessities,  would  not  furnish  sufficient  means  for 
a  change  of  air  such  as  Phoebe  needed. 

"I  should  be  delighted,"  said  Sally,  determining  sud 
denly  to  speak,  and  hurrying  the  words  a  little  in  spite  of 
herself,  "if  .  .  .  if  I  should  decide  to  go  to  the  seaside  later 
— some  time  next  month,  perhaps,  to  take  Phoebe  with  me.''1 
And  now  she  saw  that  Owen  was  looking  at  her  with  the 
most  candid  surprise,  for  she  had  never  in  her  life  left 
World 's-End  in  summer  for  the  seashore.  The  next  mo 
ment,  however,  he  thought.  "That  will  really  be  an  ex 
cellent  idea  for  them  both.  Sally  is  a  great  dear  to  think 
of  taking  the  child  with  her." 

"You  are  more  than  kind,"  said  the  old  man,  much 
moved.  "I  have  no  adequate  terms  at  my  command  with 
which  to  thank  you.  .  .  .  ' 

A  long  growl  of  thunder,  much  nearer  than  any  that 
had  been  before,  interrupted  him,  and  Owen  started  up. 

"I  think  I'll  have  a  hunt  for  Phoebe,"  he  said,  as  he 
went  out. 

The  sick  fear  of  something  vague  and  yet  terrible  that 
might  happen  at  any  moment  seized  Sally  again,  but  con 
trolling  it  as  best  she  could  she  turned  to  Phoebe's  father 
and  began  to  talk  to  him  about  the  coast  of  Maine  and  New 
Hampshire,  and  of  how  invigorating  it  was,  especially  to 
Southerners,  worn  by  the  heavy  heat  of  such  a  June  as 
was  just  past. 

In  the  meantime,   Owen,  with  his  eyes  on  the  great, 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  115 

threatening  bulge  of  purplish-black  that  hung  over  Idler's 
Mountain,  strode  faster  and  faster  towards  Jlollybrook 
Wood.  lie  felt  tolerably  sure  that,  on  such  a  dense,  hot 
afternoon  as  this,  a  girl  with  a  headache  would  make  for 
its  cool  depths. 

He  was  a  lover  of  storms  and  even  his  anxiety  for  Phoebe 
could  not  prevent  his  taking  pleasure  in  the  lurid  quick 
ening  of  all  the  scene  about  him.  The  foliage  of  the  trees, 
lashed  and  beaten  by  high  currents  of  wind,  changed  to  a 
livid  hue.  A  strange,  wild  light  struck  the  distant  pas 
tures,  and  the  grazing  sheep  were  turned  by  it  as  to  flecks 
of  mica.  A  flock  of  pigeons  streamed  glinting  against  the 
ominous  sky — and  every  now  and  then  a  flash  of  lightning, 
like  a  gilded  crack  in  a  huge  shell,  would  split  the  heavens. 
"All  the  same,"  he  thought  as  he  quickened  his  gait  to  a 
run,  "that  storm  won't  reach  us — it's  going  down  the 
Green-Flower  like  the  others.  But  Phoebe  may  get  a  fright 
..."  and  he  ran  on  till  he  reached  the  wood.  As  he 
entered  its  great,  dusky  aisles  and  felt  its  damp  fragrance 
all  about  him,  he  was  newly  thankful  that  he  had  been  able 
to  save  it  from  the  saw-mill.  The  giant  pines  were  land 
marks  for  miles  around.  Little  mossy  paths  veined  it  as 
with  .inde  and  malachite,  and,  where  Hollybrook  itself  ran 
trilling  its  low  song,  ferns  curved  lush  and  tough-stemmed. 

It  v.  as  very  still  here  in  the  woods,  the  only  sound  a 
harsh  rushing  far  overhead,  where  the  wind  lashed  the  top 
most  branches — "a  sound  as  of  going"  in  the  trees. 

Owen  walked,  on,  calling  now  and  then,  "Phoebe! 
Phoebe!"  and  once  or  twice  giving  the  far-carrying  Aus 
tralian  cry,  "coo-ce!"  but  no  one  answered  him. 

He  had  come  to  a  little  lawn,  covered  with  wild-violet 
leaves  like  the  grave  of  Keats,  where  the  brook  lilted 
half-asleep  through  a  covert  of  hazel  and  kalmia  and  elder- 
shrubs — he  had  just  reached  this  spot  and  was  about  to 
step  across  it  when  a  new  sound  caught  his  ear,  driving 
the  blood  from  his  face — the  sound  of  a  long,  low,  piteous 
moaning.  Some  little  woodland  thing,  caught  in  a  springe, 
might  moan  like  that.  It  rose  and  fell,  regular  and  rhyth 
mic  as  though  the  heart  itself  might  have  been  marking 
its  beats  with  faint  sounds  of  anguish. 

Owen  sprang  forward,  a  sudden  ice  in  all  his  veins. 

The  one  leap  brought  him  to  where  Phoebe  lay,  face 
down,  her  hands  clutching  the  warm  moss. 

"Oh,  Phoebe,  Phoebe!  little  Phoebe  .  .  .  my  poor  little 


116  WORLD'S-END 

child  .  .  .  my  poor  little  Phoebe,"  cried  Owen,  and  he 
threw  himself  on  the  ground  beside  her,  and  tried  to  lift 
her  in  his  arms.  But  she  clung  frantically  to  the  earth, 
like  a  desperate  child  to  its  mother's  breast.  "Xo  ...  no  ... 
no  ...  no/'  she  moaned,  "oh,  no  ...  no  ...  no  ... 
no." 

"Phoebe,  dear — dear  child.  I  must  hurt  you,  I  fear," 
said  Owen,  his  face  convulsed  with  pity  and  alarm,  "but 
I  must  lift  you  up,  dear.  I  must  take  you  to  the  house." 

At  this  she  stopped  struggling,  and  Owen  lifted  her  in 
his  arms,  and  felt  with  another  pang  how  light  she  was. 
The  little  wrist  that  swayed  out  over  his  shoulder  looked 
delicately  brittle  in  its  thinness.  In  her  pale  fingers  were 
bits  of  the  moss  and  leaves  that  she  had  clutched. 

To  carry  a  swooning  girl  for  nearly  half  a  mile,  no  mat 
ter  how  slight  and  thin  she  may  be,  is  a  feat  that  takes 
strength  and  endurance  of  no  mean  order.  He  reached 
Nelson's  Gift  with  the  sweat  running  down  his  face. 

Terrified  as  he  was,  he  had  yet  the  wisdom  to  go  around 
with  Phoebe  to  the  kitchen  instead  of  bearing  her  like 
that  into  her  father's  presence. 

Aunt  Patty  was  not  the  hysterical  type  of  negress,  but 
a  quiet,  staid  old  woman;  her  worn  face  had  looked  on 
much  sorrow,  and  she  was  well  acquainted  with  the  dark 
surprises  of  life. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  Lily's  shoulder  as  the  girl  opened 
her  lips  as  if  to  scream  and  said  sternly: 

"Don't  you  dar'  holler — dis  ain't  no  time  for  hollerin' 
— dis  is  actin'  time.  You  go  on  up  and  set  Miss  Phoebe's 
bed  ready,  an'  I'll  show  Mr.  Randolph  whar  to  carry  her. 
Come  dis  way,  suh.  We-all  kin  go  up  de  back  steps." 

They  laid  Phoebe  on  her  little  bed  of  white  wood  painted 
with  blue  roses  and  Aunt  Patty  stood  and  smoothed  the 
damp  hair  from  the  unconscious  forehead,  her  harsh,  toil- 
roughened  palm  catching  on  the  silken  locks. 

"My  1'il  honey  .  .  .  my  po'  1'il  lamb,"  she  murmured. 

' ' Mrs.  Bryce  is  here,  Aunt  Patty, ' '  Owen  told  her.  "  I'll 
go  bring  her  up." 

As  he  left  the  room,  Phoebe's  red-bird  flew  from  the 
cage  of  which  the  door  stood  open,  and  lighted  on  the 
foot  of  the  bed. 

Aunt  Patty  looked  at  it  and  her  brow  contracted.  "I 
don't  like  dee  sign  of  birds  in  sickness,"  he  heard  her 
mutter.  "No,  I  don't." 


WORLD 'S-EXD  117 

Jimmy  Toots  v,*as  strutting  on  the  window-sill.  Now, 
as  if  jealous  of  the  red-bird,  he  gave  a  displeased  "caw" 
and  fluttered  over  beside  him. 

"Too  many  birds  .  .  .  too  many  birds."  crooned  Aunt  Pat 
ty,  and  she  said  "shoo"  and  shook  her  apron  at  him.  King 
Rcdcly  flew  to  the  mirror,  but  Jimmy  Toots,  ruffling  all  his 
feathers  forward,  merely  scratched  his  ear  leisurely,  then, 
stretching  one  leg  far  out  behind  him,  drew  it  up  under 
his  sooty  down.  and.  resting  upon  the  other,  remained  ini- 
perturbably  where  he  was. 

Owen  went  to  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  and  asked 
Mr.  Nelson  if  he  would  excuse  Sally  for  a  moment — that 
Phoebe  wished  to  see  her.  The  old  gentleman  expressed 
himself  as  most  grateful  to  Owen  for  finding  Phoebe  and 
bringing  her  safely  home. 

"She  will  fetch  some  Madeira  and  thin  biscuit  for  us 
now."  he  ended  in  a  pleasant  voice.  "My  daughter  is  a 
thrifty  little  housekeeper,  and  not  even  Patty  is  allowed 
to  use  her  keys." 

Sally  came  out  and  gazed  up  at  him  with  a  white  face. 

"Phoebe  is  very  ill,"  he  said.  "I  found  her  in  the  wood 
in  a  dreadful  state.  She  is  unconscious.  You  had  better 
go  up  at  once.  "When  I've  broken  it  to  the  old  man,  I'll 
take  'The  Clown'  and  go  for  Patton." 

' '  Wait ! ' '  cried  Sally  and  her  thin  fingers  dug  into  his 
arm. 

""Wait?    Why?"  he  asked  startled. 

Sally  tried  to  speak,  and  a  harsh  croak  came  from  her 
lips.  She  gave  a  sort  of  hysterical  laugh  "It's  ...  it's  ... 
the  shock.  ...  Is  she  delirious?"  she  asked,  stammering. 

"No  .  .  .  unconscious.     But  a  doctor.  .  .  .   ' 

"Let  me  see  her  first.  She  has  a  "horror  of  doctors.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  remember.  Her  father  said  so.  .  .  .  Any  shock 
now  .  ,  .  any  shock,  I  mean.  ...  It  would  be  terribly 
dangerous  to  give  her  any  shock.  I'll  see  her  first." 

And  Sally  :-ushed  off  up  the  winding  stairway  of  the 
front  hall. 

"Jimmy  Toots"  was  still  keeping  sombre  vigil  on  the 
bed-foot  as  she  entered,  and  Aunt  Patty  rocking  and  croon 
ing  with  the  girl's  little  dead -looking  hand  held  against 
her  breast. 

"Open  the  shutters — wide!"  said  Sally  in  a  harsh  voice. 
"Now  come  help  me." 

Together   they    slipped    away   the    pillow    from    under 


118  WORLD'S -END 

Phoebe's  head,  opened  her  bodice  and,  cutting  the  lace  of 
the  corset,  dragged  it  from  under  her.  The  girl's  face, 
lying  there  with  sightless  eyes  and  little  chin,  pointed 
towards  the  whitewashed  ceiling,  struck  to  her  heart.  On 
the  pale  lips  was  that  stiffened  smile  of  a  dying  mar 
moset. 

Sally  took  a  towel  and,  wetting  it,  struck  it  sharply  on 
Phoebe's  cheeks  and  temples.  After  a  minute  or  two  the 
girl  gave  a  long,  faint  moan  and  half  opened  her  eyes. 
Quick  as  thought  Sally  bent  close  to  her,  her  fingers  on  the 
pulse  which  was  beating  thinly  but  regularly. 

"You're  safe,"  she  said,  "I'm  with  you.  I'm  going  to 
keep  you  safe." 

The  girl  wearily  closed  her  eyes  and  turned  away  her 
face. 

Sally  had  great  nervous  strength,  and  she  propped  the 
limp  body  up  in  her  arms  and  held  it  against  her,  while 
Aunt  Patty  brought  the  plain  little  nainsook  nightgown. 
Together  again  the  knotted  black  hands  and  the  thin  sal 
low  ones  clothed  the  girl  in  the  fresh  garment,  and  draw 
ing  back  the  sheet  laid  her  in  her  bed. 

"I  must  plait  this  or  it  will  have  to  be  cut  off,"  said 
Sally.  "Hold  her  head  steady  on  the  pillow  while  I  comb 
it  out," 

She  was  assured  now  that  Phoebe  was  in  no  danger  of 
her  life.  She  had  merely  been  in  a  long  swoon  of  utter 
exhaustion  brought  on  by  her  condition  and  the  horrible 
shock  of  that  morning. 

She  combed  and  braided  the  bright  hair. 

As  she  was  finishing  "Jimmy  Toots"  flew  suddenly  at 
her  and,  giving  her  hand  a  sharp  dig  with  his  beak,  beat 
his  wings  against  her  arm.  She  almost  shrieked  with  the 
uncanny  fright  of  it.  There  was  a  little  blood-drop  on 
her  hand  wrhere  his  beak  had  struck. 

"Oh,  drive  him  out!  .  .  .  drive  him  away!"  she  cried 
to  Aunt  Patty. 

Aunt  Patty,  advancing  cautiously  from  behind,  threw 
her  apron  over  the  crow  and  transferred  him  to  his  cage 
of  osier  which  stood  near  the  window. 

"Dat's  Satan's  own  bird,"  said  she,  "but  he  sho'  love 
my  baby.  He  thought  you  \vas  harmin'  her." 

"Stay  by  her,"  whispered  Sally,  and  ran  downstairs  to 
Owen. 

"There's  no  need  of  a  doctor,"  she  said,  as  he  came  out 


WORLD'S-EXD  119 

into  the  hall,  hearing  her  step.  "It's  only  a  faint  .  .  . 
the  poor  child's  dreadfully  run  down.  I'm  going  to  stay 
all  night  .  .  .  when  I  asked  if  she  wouldn't  see  the  doc 
tor  si  10  nearly  went  off  into  another  swoon.  Take  The 
Clown,  and  tell  Mirabel  to  send  me  a  bag  with  night  things 
in  it." 

Here  Mr.  Nelson  joined  them,  his  thin  face  drawn  with 
apprehension. 

Sally  rapidly  repeated  what  she  had  said  to  Owen.  The 
o:-.i  man  looked  overwhelmed  when  she  stated  that  she  was 
going  to  remain  at  Nelson's  Gift  for  the  night. 

"My  dear  Madam,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  in  both 
his  own,  "how  can  I  thank  you'?— if  you  had  seen  my 
little  Phoebe  more  than  once  or  twice  it  would  be  love 
for  her  that  moved  you,  but  as  it  is  only  the  rarest,  most 
generous  kindliness  of  heart  can  prompt  such  an  unselfish 
action." 

She  thought  that  Owen  was  looking  at  her  rather 
strangely. 

lie  suggested  once  more  having  Charles  Patton  in  case 
of  any  unforeseen  developments,  and  this  time  it  was  all 
that  Sally  could  do  to  control  the  natural  irritability  of 
her  temper.  But  finally  it  was  decided  that  for  the  present 
Patton  should  not  be  sent  for. 

"Phoebe  seems  indeed  to  have  an  almost  morbid  dis 
like  of  the  idea,"  said  her  father.  "I  agree  with  Mrs.  Bryee 
that  as  there  is  no  danger  at  present  we  had  better  not 
run  the  risk  of  agitating  her  unduly  by  his  presence." 

"Yes,  yes — that  is  best  .  .  .  I'm  sure  of  it,"  urged 
Sally. 

And  suddenly,  with  all  his  faculty  of  intuition,  Owen 
felt  convinced  that  there  was  something  hidden  and  sin 
ister  in  this  strange  eagerness  of  Sally  to  prevent  a  doc 
tor  from  coming  to  Nelson's  Gift  that  night. 

He  turned  silently,  and  went  out  to  mount ' '  The  Clown, ' ' 
a  dark  confusion  of  doubt,  foreboding,  grief,  formless  sus 
picion  whirling  through  his  mind. 


XIX 

the  eerie  half-light  of  the  retreating  storm 
•*•     under  wild  witchlocks  of  ravelled  cloud   Owen  rode 
fast  towards  "World  VEnd.     Alwavs  Phoebe's  heart-rent 


120  WORLD'S-END 

moaning  and  her  one  wild  cry  rang  in  his  ears.  The  mere 
memory  of  that  desolate  cry  shook  his  heart  again.  And 
he  recalled  the  fragile  lightness  of  her  body  when  he  had 
lifted  her,  and  the  touching  helplessness  of  her  little  head 
against  his  arm,  and  that  thin,  pale  wrist  swaying  loose 
so  pitifully.  Phoebe! — little  Phoebe — so  laughter-loving, 
so  childlike  in  many  ways — whence  had  she  drawn  the 
source  of  such  a  grief? — what  tragedy  had  breathed  on 
her,  blighting  her  bright  carelessness — and  Sally — how 
strangely  Sally  had  acted ! — how  her  thin  fingers  had 
gripped  his  arm — it  was  because  she  did  not  wish  him  to 
go  for  a  doctor  that  she  had  gripped  his  arm  like  that — 
Why  ?  Why  ?  There  was  something  here  hidden,  dark,  un 
natural — it  was  as  if  Sally  were  in  a  plot  with  someone 
— were  plotting  to  hide — some  fearful  thing — and  from 
him.  He  could  not  order  his  thoughts.  They  broke  on 
him  from  all  sides,  like  evil  creatures  thrusting  heads  and 
stings  from  crevices  in  an  impassable  wall.  The  only  thing 
that  he  felt  clearly  was  the  presence  of  something  horri 
ble  and  dark  under  the  thick  surface  into  which  he  could 
not  see.  Again  and  again  Phoebe's  face  came  before  him 
as  it  had  looked,  stark  and  unconscious  against  his  arm : — 
the  sightless  eyes,  the  little  teeth  just  showing  piteously 
between  the  parted  lips.  Again  and  again  he  heard  the 
moaning,  so  desolate,  so  long  drawn  out,  low  and  spent, 
as  of  some  small  woodland  thing  caught  in  a  springe.  But 
what — what  could  have  brought  her  to  this  desperate  pass? 
And  not  to  have  a  doctor.  Somehow  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  believe  that  Sally  really  thought  a  doctor  should 
not  be  sent  for.  But  then,  in  that  case,  she  had  some  rea 
son.  What  could  be  her  reason?  Since  Phoebe  was  ill 
enough  to  make  her  think  it  necessary  to  spend  the  night 
at  Nelson's  Gift — why  not  a  doctor?  And  why  should 
Sally  care  so  much  about  her  when  she  had  only  seen  her 
once  or  twice?  Yes,  "once  or  twice"  was  what  the  old 
man  had  said.  Sally  was  not  impulsive  or  given  to  sud 
den  affections.  Now  she  would  stay  all  night  with  a  girl 
that  she  scarcely  knew.  Besides,  she  had  said  that  Phoebe 
was  not  really  ill.  Yet  she  was  going  tro  spend  the  night 
watching  by  her. 

And  more  and  more  that  feeling  as  of  something  sinister 
and  fateful,  waiting  to  spring,  grew  and  darkened  the  hori 
zon  of  his  mind;  closed  upon  him  in  a  smothering  cloud 
of  obscure  dread,  of  peril  half-surmised,  of  doubt,  of  pain, 


WORLD'S -END  121 

of  a  sort  of  under-impulse  of  anger  which  made  him  wish 
to  take  Sally's  arms  and  turn  her  so  that  she  must  face 
him,  and  compel  her  to  give  him  the  true  reason  for  her 
strange  conduct. 

He  rode  back  to  Nelson's  Gift  with  his  mood  in  no  way 
light  rued,  and  went  up  himself  to  give  Sally  what  he  had 
brought  her. 

She  wished  to  take  the  hag  through  the  half-open  door, 
but  Owen  said : 

"Xo,  please — I  want  to  see  you."  v 

Then  she  came  out  hurriedly,  closing  the  door  behind 
her.  She  was  still  very  pale,  and  her  eyes  looked  deeper 
sunken  in  their  dusky  hollows. 

"What  is  it,  Owen?     Please,  don't  keep  me." 

He  looked  straight  into  those  restless  eyes. 

''Why  are  you  so  bent  on  not  having  Patton,   Sally?'5 

She  seemed  to  him  to  hold  her  breath  for  an  instant. 
Then  she  said  quietly. 

''You  heard  what  the  girl's  own  father  said." 

"Yes — but  why  do  you  wish  it?" 

"I  think  that/ is  self-evident." 

"I  do  m7t  think  so,"  said  Owen. 

"Please  give  me  my  things,  Owen.  Phoebe  is  quieter 
when  I  am  beside  her. ' ' 

' '  Why  should  she  be  quieter  when  you  are  beside  her  ? — 
You  are  almost  a  stranger  to  her." 

"I  can't  discuss  that  at  a  time  like  this,  Owen.  If  you 
will  not  give  me  the  bag  I  must  go  back  without  it." 

Owen  took  her  gently  by  the  arm. 

"There  is  something  here  I  don't  understand,"  he  said. 
"You  must  explain  it  to  me.  Sally." 

"You  are  acting  very  strangely  at  a  time  like  this.  Please 
let  me  go.  You  are  hurting  my  arm." 

"No,  Sally,  I  am  holding  you  very  lightly.  But  you 
must  clear  things  for  me.  Why  are  you  staying  here  to 
night?  Why  are  you  willing  to  take  such  a  grave  respon 
sibility  ?  To  lead  that  old  man  into  thinking  that  a  doctor 
isn't  needed?  If  anything  dreadful  should  happen — 

Try  as  she  might.  Sally  could  not  restrain  the  shudder 
that  ran  through  her  at  these  words.  "I  must  know  what 
is  back  of  all  this,"  said  Owen,  and  his  face  that  she  only 
knew  as  kindly,  and  pleasantly  ironical,  was  hard  as  flint 

"If  you  will  let  me  go  now,  Owen,  I  will  come  down 
later  and  talk  with  you." 


122  WORLD'S-EXD 

"You  promise?" 

"Yes." 

Then  he  released  her  arm,  but  when  she  had  disappeare,d 
into  Phoebe's  room  he  stood  for  some  moments  longer  gaz 
ing  at  the  closed  door,  with  brows  drawn  down,  and  lips 
set. 

When  he  went  back  to  the  library  he  found  Mr.  Nelsoa 
leaning  on  a  malacca  stick  by  the  window.  He  turned 
as  Owen  entered  and  his  face  brightened. 

"Patty  has  just  brought  me  word  that  Phoebe  is  much 
better,"  he  said,  "and  now  I  am  doubly  glad  to  see  that 
you  are  safely  returned.  The  sky  looks  very  ominous.  I 
have  been  fearing  that  we  might  have  a  cloud-burst  such  as 
kept  Mr.  Bryce  here  for  the  night  about  the  first  of  May. ' ' 

Owen,  who  was  walking  towards  him,  stopped  short, 
then  moved  forward  again. 

"I  don't  think  we  shall  have  a  storm  tonight,  sir,"  he 
said.  "Besides,  if  you  don't  object,  I  shall  spend  the  night 
here  in  any  case.  That  sofa  will  make  a  capital  bed." 

"I  could  not  think  of  such  a  thing  as  letting  you  sleep 
on  a  leather  couch,  Mr.  Randolph.  The  room  that  Mr. 
Bryce  occupied  is  always  kept  in  readiness  for  guests." 

What  the  old  gentleman  was  really  anxious  about  was 
supper.  Would  Patty  be  able  to  serve  a  presentable  sup 
per  ?  Were  there  eggs  enough  ?  How  would  she  manage 
without  Phoebe  to  direct  her? 

Owen  had  been  gazing  at  the  door  of  the  closet  where 
Richard's  picture  of  Phoebe  was  kept.  Now  as  the  old 
gentleman's  measured  utterance  ceased,  he  started. 

"I  will  do  just  as  you  wish,  sir,  of  course,"  he  said. 

"Even  such  small  rest  as  my  anxiety  about  my  daugh 
ter  may  leave  me,"  rejoined  Mr.  Nelson,  "would  be  en 
tirely  dispelled  were  I  to  think  of  you  as  sleeping  on  a 
bare  couch.  But  I  see  that  you  look  towards  your  ne 
phew's  portrait.  Would  you  care  to  see  it  again?" 

"No "  said  Owen  abruptly.  "No  „  .  ..  thank  you. 

I  agree  with  you  in  thinking  that  it  doesn't  do  Phoebe 
justice.  And  what  patience  she  must  have  had  posing  for 
such  an  elaborate  portrait.  It  must  have  taken  quite  a 
long  time.  „  .  .  " 

"Undoubtedly  your  nephew  spent  great  pains  upon  it. 
That  the  likeness  is  not  more  striking  is  certainly  not  due 
to  any  lack  of  care  on  his  part.  For  hours  every  day  he 
would  paint  with,  the  most  undiminished  ardour.  On  the 


W  O  II  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  123 

few  occasions  that  I  watched  him  at  his  work  I  was  struck 
by  his  great  perseverance.  I  am  quite  unacquainted  with 
the  methods  of  artists,  but  it  struck  me  as  both  singular 
and  praiseworthy  that  so  young  a  man  should  so  untiringly 
cover  the  same  surface  with  different  coats  of  paint,  if 
to  take  pains  is  genius,  sir,  your  nephew  is  certainly  a 
genius. ' ' 

Owen  was  standing  at  the  window  staring  up  at  the  sky, 
which  was  now  almost  blended  with  the  dark  earth.  Only 
some  fast  gliding  greyish  blurs  told  where  clouds  were 
scudding  over  the  black  abyss  of  air.  "I  hope  Richard 
didn't  try  your  hospitality  too  far,  Mr.  Nelson,"  he  said. 
"He's  apt  to  forget  other  things  where  art  is  concerned." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Phoebe's  father,  "it  was  a  great 
pleasure  to  have  such  an  attractive  youth,  at  Nelson's 
Gift.  He  and  Phoebe  seemed  to  be  very  congenial  com 
panions.  I  believe  it  was  a  disappointment  to  her  that 
he  could  not  finish  it  this  summer.  But  she  told  me  that 
important  business  called  him  unexpectedly  to  New  York, 
• — the  day  after  the  storm  if  I  remember  rightly, — or  no, — 
it  was  the  day  after  that." 

"The  first  of  May  I  think  you  said?" 

"About  then, — or  say; — I  recall  that  it  was  after 
Phoebe 's  birthday, — about  the  second  week  in  May,  I  think. 
\Ye  missed  the  young  man.  He  plays  chess  quite  well  for 
a  beginner.  I  won  a  game  from  him  with  considerable 
difficulty  on  the  evening  that  he  stayed  all  night  with  us. ' ' 

Owen's  temples  ached  with  the  pressure  from  his  quick 
ened  heart.  He  was  like  one  who  has  been  stunned  for 
a  moment,  and  wakes  to  the  pain  of  the  blow.  That  in 
tuition  of  his,  swift  and  sure  as  a  woman's,  had  leaped  to 
some  appalling  conclusions  during  the  last  ten  minutes. 
And  yet — and  yet — Phoebe!  little  Phoebe!  Those  clear, 
childlike  eyes. — that  lightly  laughing  mouth — but  here 
reason  stabbed  with  her  cold  blade — Juliet  had  not  so 
passionate  a  mouth  as  Phoebe's — Juliet  who,  from  her 
moonlit  balcony,  could  demand  his  intentions  of  her  lover 
as  calmly  as  her  lady-mother  might  have  done; — whether 
his  "bent  of  love"  were  "honourable,"  his  "purpose  mar 
riage"?  "While  Phoebe — sickeningly  sure  was  Owen,  that, 
shaken  by  the  breath  of  love,  Phoebe  would  never  have 
paused  to  question  her  lover's  honour  or  the  worthiness  of 
his  intentions. 

If  what  he  feared  in  that  dark  glare  of  revelation  cast 


124  WORLD'S-END 

by  the  old  man's  innocent  garrulity, — if — what  he  shudder- 
ingly  feared  were  true, — then  no  baser,  more  heartless, 
more  cowardly  scoundrel  lived  than  his  nephew,  Richard 
Bryce. 

And — as  controlling  himself  by  an  effort  of  sheer  will, 
he  led  the  old  man  to  ramble  amiably  on, — he  was  putting 
together,  link  by  link,  the  fragile  chain  of  circumstantial 
evidence;  the  night  spent  at  Nelson's  Gift  nearly  two 
months  ago,  the  sudden  departure  of  Richard  within  two 
days  after;  the  lie  about  "important  business";  Phoebe's 
look  that  morning  when  he  met  her  driving  from  World 's- 
End;  the  news  of  Richard's  sailing  for  the  East,  only  re 
ceived  by  his  mother  that  very  day;  Sally's  eagerness  to 
go  again  to  Nelson's  Gift  in  the  afternoon;  the  anguish 
of  Phoebe  in  the  wood;  Sally's  almost  fierce  determina 
tion  not  to  have  a  doctor.  Like  a  scroll  of  some  Satanic 
scripture,  unholy  and  convincing,  the  facts  and  their  in 
terpretation  unrolled  before  him. 

And  Phoebe  meantime,  lying  white  and  broken  in  her 
bed  with  its  blue-rose  garlands,  was  thinking: 

"There  is  no  other  way — I  must  get  my  strength — then 
I  must  kill  myself." 

From  under  her  heavy  lids  she  watched  his  mother,  sit 
ting  in  her  own  little  wicker  chair  against  the  blue  denim 
cushions  that  she  had  made  herself.  How  tall  and  tired 
and  thin  she  looked,  folded  deep  in  her  dressing-gown  of 
pale-blue  crape,  that  made  her  sallow  face  seem  dusky  as 
an  Indian's.  How  straight  those  great  black  eyes  stared 
before  her — how  like,  how  dreadfully  like,  his  eyes  they 
were!  And  how  the  big  jewels  of  her  rings  glittered  in 
the  draughty  candle-light  where  her  hands  were  clasped 
together  upon  her  thin  knees.  Was  she  praying?  Phoebe 
shivered  through  all  her  spent  nerves.  If  she  were  pray 
ing  it  must  be  to  some  evil  power,  for  those  black  eyes 
might  have  been  the  eyes  of  Job 's  wife  when  she  bade  him 
curse  God  and  die. 

His  mother — in  her  room.  His  mother,  knowing  all  her 
shame,  ready  to  protect  her  in  order  that  he  might  not 
suffer  the  consequences  of  her  shame.  "I  must  kill  myself 

— I  must  kill  myself "  she  thought.  "And  I  must  do 

it  surely — I  must  not  be  saved — I  must  not  make  a  mis 
take." 

Feverishly  her  thoughts  quested,  seeking  the  surest  way. 
There  was  no  pistol  in  the  house — laudanum?  She  might 


WORLD'S- END  125 

take  an  overdose,  and  so  fail  of  her  aim.  She  swam  too 
well  to  drown  herself — she  had  "heard  that  people  who 
could  swim  did  so  in  spite  of  their  desire  for  death  the 
instant  that  the  water  was  about  them.  Suddenly  her 
heart  checked,  then  laboured  painfully.  She  had  thought 
of  it!  She  had  thought  of  a  sure  way!  In  the  store-room 
was  a  quart  of  chloroform  kept  for  emergencies  on  the 
farm.  She  would  make  a  sack  of  some  stout  material, — 
then  with  the  quart  of  chloroform  and  her  bath-sponge, 
she  would  go  far  into  the  Mountain  Woods — very  far, — 
where  she  could  not  be  found  for  days.  She  would  soak 
the  sponge  in  the  chloroform,  put  it  in  the  sack,  then  lie 
down  and  fasten  the  sack  tightly  over  her  head.  "But  I 
must  get  strong  first.  I  must  make  her  think  I  will  mind 
all  that  she  says." 

And  from  under  her  heavy  lids,  and  thick,  short  lashes, 
she  watched  Sally,  sitting  there  so  motionless  in  the  little 
wicker  chair,  with  her  black  eyes  smouldering  darkly,  and 
her  thin,  jewelled  fingers  clasped  on  her  thin  knees. 


XX 

A  FTER  supper,  which  to  Mr.  Nelson's  great  relief  was 
•**•  excellent,  though  plain,  the  old  gentleman  pleaded  so 
earnestly  to  be  allowed  to  see  Phoebe,  if  only  for  a  few 
moments,  that  Sally  told  him  he  might  go  and  sit  by  her 
till  she  came  back,  if  he  would  not  talk  to  her  or  let  her 
talk  to  him.  When  he  had  gone  upstairs,  she  turned  to 
her  brother,  saying: 

"Now,  Owen,"  and  led  the  way  into  the  green-panelled 
room. 

Sally,  while  she  had  sat  brooding  in  Phoebe's  wicker- 
chair,  had  determined  on  her  course  of  action.  She  knew 
that  the  girl 's  secret  would  be  as  safe  with  Owen  as  though 
buried  in  a  depthless  sea,  and  she  had  decided  to  tell  him 
that  Phoebe  had  confided  her  tragic  secret  to  her,  and  that 
her  lover  wras  a  Virginian  whom  she  had  known  for  some 
years,  and  whose  name  she  preferred  not  to  tell,  as  he  had 
died  suddenly,  a  day  or  two  ago.  This  would  account  for 
Phoebe's  despair,  and  would  also  prevent  Owen  from  tak 
ing  steps  to  discover  the  man's  name  and  trying  to  force 
him  to  marry  Phoebe.  But  when  she  found  herself  alone 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

with  Owen,  and  lifted  her  eyes  with  schooled  calmness  to 
his  face,  she  saw  that  the  hard  expression  had  left  it  and 
that  he  only  looked  profoundly  sad  and  rather  older  than 
.usual. 

''I've  come  to  explain  whatever  you  think  necessary," 
she  said  gently. 

' '  Thank  you,  Sally, ' '  he  replied,  ' '  but  I  've  been  having  a 
long  talk  with  the  old  man.  Many  things  have  become 
clearer  to  me.  I  am  sorry  if  I  was  abrupt  just  now.  My 
great  anxiety  and  the  shock  of  the  whole  thing  must  be 
my  excuse.  Mr.  Nelson  tells  me  that  aversion  from 
doctors  comes  to  Phoebe  directly  from  her  mother.  It's 
a  singular  prejudice  to  inherit,  but  such  things  have  no 
rules.  ..." 

He  was  not  looking  at  her  as  he  said  this,  but  at  Phoebe 's 
grey  kitten,  which  had  sprung  upon  his  knee  and  was 
playing  with  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat.  Sally  thanked 
God  that  he  had  not  been  looking  at  her.  The  blood  surged 
into  her  face,  and  she  felt  her  lips  twitching  in  spite  of  her 
efforts  to  control  them, — so  violent  was  the  reaction  from 
the  most  poignant  dread  to  this  unexpected  relief. 

She  was  silent  just  long  enough  to  get  her  voice  per 
fectly  under  command,  then  said  quietly : 

"I  think  that  you  will  see  for  yourself  tomorrow  how 
much  better  Phoebe  is.  She  is  quite  composed  now,  and 
drank  some  milk  and  wine  I  mixed  for  her  very  obediently 
and  sweetly." 

"Yes, — she  has  a  lovely  nature,"  said  Owen  a  little 
hoarsely. 

It  was  natural,  he  felt,  that  Sally  should  wish  to  keep 
from  him  the  horror  of  Eichard's  act,  yet  that  she  should 
set  herself  deliberately  to  deceive  him  after  all  these  years 
of  close  companionship  cut  him  to  the  heart. 

"Shall  you  stay  here  tonight?"  asked  Sally,  dreading 
silence. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Nelson  has  offered  to  put  me  up.  And  if  there 
should  be  any  change  for  the  worse,  if  you  should  decide 
to  have  a  doctor,  after  all,  I  can  get  Patton  more  quickly 
than  a  farm-hand  on  some  old  plug  could." 

' ' That's  very,  very  kind  of  you,  Owen.  It  will  be  a  great 
comfort  to  feel  that  you're  in  the  house." 

Owen  laid  the  squirming  kitten  on  its  back  in  one  of  his 
big  hands,  and  stroked  its  little  pear-shaped  stomach,  while 
it  caught  his  forefinger  in  both  paws  and  pretended  to 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  127 

bite  it.  "Do  3-011  think  that  I  can  see  Phoebe  tomorrow?" 
he  asked,  still  with  his  eyes  on  the  kitten. 

"I  ...  well  ..."  hesitated  Sally.  "It  might  excite 
her  too  much.  But  if  she  wants  to  see  you,  .  .  .  perhaps." 

"AYe're  great  friends,  Phoebe  and  I,"  said  he,  and  again 
his  voice  was  a  little  hoarse. 

"Yes  ...  I  think  you  might  see  her,  as  she  knows  you 
so  well,"  hurried  Sally,  anxious  to  conciliate  him  in  every 
way  possible.  "It  might  divert  her  from  thinking  too 
much  of  her  own  .  . .  feelings."  She  had  been  on  the  point  o£ 
saying  "troubles,"  and  bit  her  lip,  glancing  sharply  at 
him,  but  the  kitten  still  claimed  his  attention. 

"Thanks.  I  wish  very  much  to  see  the  child.  But  don't 
you  think  the  old  gentleman  has  been  with  her  long 
enough  ?  Hadii  't  you  better  go  back  now  ? ' ' 

Sally  rose  with  alacrity,  and  the  brother  and  sister 
clasped  hands  for  good  night. 

"If  you  need  me,  I  shall  be  in  the  room  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs,"  said  Owen,  and  as  he  said  this  it  seemed  to 
Sally  that  a  shadow  passed  over  his  face.  But  the  next 
instant  she  decided  that  the  strain  of  the  past  three  or  four 
hours  had  made  her  fanciful.  All  the  way  upstairs  she 
kept  saying  in  her  heart,  "Thank  God!  Thank  God!" 
After  all,  he  was  not  really  suspicious, — only  upset  by  the 
shock.  And  she  had  a  wild  longing  to  get  to  some  corner 
quite  by  herself,  where  she  could  ease  the  stricture  in  her 
throat  by  a  fit  of  weeping. 

The  next  morning,  while  she  was  taking  her  coffee  seated 
by  Phoebe 's  bed,  she  said  to  her : 

"My  child,  you  had  better  call  me  'Cousin  Sally';  it  will 
seem  more  natural  if  you  are  going  away  with  me  for  a 
long  trip.  It  will  explain  our  relations  clearly." 

"Yes,  Cousin  Sally,"  said  Phoebe  obediently. 

"And,  Phoebe.  I  want  you  to  try  to  be  as  quiet  and  com 
posed  as  you  can.  I  am  really  your  friend.  I  want  you 
to  lean  on  me." 

"Yes  .  .  .  thank  you,  Cousin  Sally,"  said  Phoebe.  She 
wished  to  please,  to  inspire  confidence,  so  that  Sally  should 
not  be  afraid  to  leave  her  to  herself,  while  they  were  pre 
paring  to  go  away.  She  dreaded  more  than  anything  that 
Sally  should  insist  on  taking  her  back  to  "World  's-End, 
and  so  interfere  with  her  plan  about  the  chloroform.  But 
even  that  should  not  stop  her.  She  would  kill  herself; 
though  to  accomplish  it  she  had  to  leap  from  the  train  over 


128  WORLD'S-END 

some  high  trestle  or  embankment  on  her  way  to  the  sea 
side. 

Sally  rose  and  put  down  the  little  tray  on  which  the 
coffee  had  been  served.  Then  she  came  back  and  seated 
herself  on  the  low  bed,  taking  Phoebe's  hand  in  both  hers. 

"Listen,  my  child,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Phoebe,  looking  up  at  her  wearily,  but 
submissively. 

"I  want  you  to  keep  this  thought  before  you.  It  will 
give  you  strength.  I  am  determined  that  Richard  shall 
marry  you  when  he  returns  from  the  East.  I  have  a  strong 
will,  Phoebe.  You  can  rest  assured  that  Richard  will 
marry  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Phoebe  again,  but  she  was  thinking  now 
that  no  will  on  earth  was  so  strong  as  the  will  in  her 
which  had  determined  that  she  would  die  rather  than  live 
after  the  wrong  that  she  had  suffered,  or  become  the  wife 
of  a  man  who  had  treated  her  as  Richard  had  done.  There 
was  no  confusion  now  in  her  feeling  towards  him.  She 
hated  him  with  a  hatred  in  direct  inverse  ratio  to  what  had 
been  her  passionate  love.  She  hated  him  so  utterly  and  so 
bitterly  that  those  black  eyes  which  resembled  his,  and 
which  looked  very  kindly  at  her  this  morning,  were  loath 
some  to  her.  When  Sally  touched  her  with  her  hot,  thin 
hands  it  was  by  the  supremest  effort  that  she  restrained 
herself  from  shrinking  physically. 

"Now,"  said  Sally,  pleased  with  the  girl's  perfect  docil 
ity,  "we  understand  each  other.  I  feel  that  we  can  be  good 
friends.  I  confess  that  at  first  I  felt  very  bitterly  towards 
you,  but  I  hope  I'm  a  just  woman.  When  I  had  thought 
things  over  I  saw  that  the  chief  wrongdoing  was  Richard 's 
— though  it  was  a  dreadful,  dreadful  thing  to  happen, 
Phoebe — and  may  ruin  Richard's  career.  Unless,  per 
haps,"  she  added,  looking  at  the  girl  keenly,  "you  will  let 
yourself  be  guided  by  me  in  the  future,  as  you  are  doing 
now." 

"I  am  sorry.  ...  I  will  try  to  please  you,"  said 
Phoebe. 

"Then  there  may  be  hope  for  us  all  three,"  said  Sally. 
"It  looks  black  enough  now,  but  there  may  be  hope." 

Phoebe  said  nothing  this  time.  She  looked  at  Sally's 
face,  which  had  grown  absent  and  almost  forbidding  in  its 
dark  gravity,  and  for  the  first  time  she  wondered,  "What 
does  she  mean  to  do  with  .  .  .  the  child  ? ' ' 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  129 

A  fierce,  new  feeling  leaped  to  life  in  Phoebe.  That  poor 
little  child  would  never  be  born,  she  was  sure ;  yet  if  it 
were  to  be,  through  some  mischance  of  fate,  did  this  woman 
think  that  she,  or  any  other  being,  would  have  the  strength 
to  take  it  from  her? 

Under  the  smooth  bedclothes  she  clenched  her  hands, 
with  their  broad,  strong  little  palms  and  slight,  pointed 
fingers, — while  the  blood  stormed  into  her  white  face. 

Sally  noticed  the  bright  flush  and,  drawing  the  bed 
clothes  a  little  higher,  said : 

''But  we're  talking  too  much  for  your  strength.  Lie 
quite  still  now  and  try  to  take  a  nap."  And,  going  over 
to  the  window,  she  seated  herself  again  in  the  wicker  chair, 
with  the  portfolio  from  her  dressing-bag  upon  her  knees, 
and  began  a  long  letter  to  Richard,  into  which  she  poured 
some  of  the  pent  bitterness  that  was  corroding  her. 

When  Sally  had  returned  to  Phoebe  the  night  before, 
Owen  settled  the  old  gentleman  comfortably  with  his  manu 
scripts,  and  said  that  he  would  have  a  pipe  outside. 

He  walked  for  a  long  time  up  and  down  the  little  flagged 
path  that  divided  Phoebe's  garden  from  the  lower  lawn. 
In  the  warm  darkness  he  could  hear  the  regular,  crisp, 
tearing  sound  of  a  horse  grazing.  It  was  "Killdee,"  who 
had  been  turned  on  the  lawn  for  the  night.  Owen,  who 
had  handled  her  when  a  tiny,  tip-toe  foal,  called  softly, 
and  with  a  "quhirr"  of  inquiry  she  ceased  grazing. — then, 
after  a  short  sniffing  halt,  came  up  to  him.  He  took  her 
gently  by  the  forelock,  and  played  with  her  soft  muzzle, — 
Phoebe's  horse,  care-free  and  mildly  lawless  in  the  sum 
mer  night,  a  creature  blithely  beyond  reach  of  moral  ques 
tions,  while  Phoebe  herself  lay  shattered  because  unwit 
tingly  she  had  snapped  one  of  the  invisible  bonds  that 
hold  in  place  a  code  of  ethics.  lie  sighed  heavily,  releasing 
the  mare,  who  returned  to  her  grazing,  moving  slowly  as 
she  cropped. 

And  walking  to  and  fro,  his  pipe,  long  smoked  out,  still 
between  his  teeth,  Owen  pondered  with  dull  pain  on  the 
dreadful  situation  which  had  been  revealed  to  him. 

He  had  led  Sally  to  believe  that  his  suspicions  were 
allayed  for  several  reasons;  foremost  was  his  determination 
neither  to  share  nor  to  discuss  Phoebe's  pitiful  secret  with 
any  one.  That  he  and  Sally  should  sit  down  calmly  to  talk 
over  the  plight  of  the  young  girl  seemed  to  him  revolting. 
And  he  thought  of  Phoebe  as  a  poor,  little  prisoner  of  hope, 


130  WORLD'S-END 

and  Sally  as  her  tolerant  but  fiercely  resolved  gaoler,  risk 
ing  everything  in  order  to  shield  the  son  who  had  brought 
dishonour  upon  her.  Somehow  it  seemed  to  him  pathetic 
and  wretched  beyond  words  that  the  vivid,  wilful  young 
creature  he  remembered  should  now  be  merely  a  bit  of 
broken  jetsam  in  Sally's  thin,  harsh  grasp.  And  what  did 
Sally  intend  doing?  What  were  her  plans?  .  .  .  The 
child  ...  he  shivered  in  the  warm  air  .  .  .  the  child,  .  .  . 
little  Phoebe's  child,  .  .  .  what  had  she  planned  to  do 
with  that?  Here  was  a  dreadful  question.  A  something, 
twined  with  the  roots  of  his  being,  thrilled  painfully  at  the 
thought  that  her  child  might  be  taken  from  Phoebe  .  .  . 
cast  into  the  convenient  deep  of  anonymity.  That,  he  felt 
sure,  was  what  Sally  would  wish  to  do.  But  it  should 
never  be.  Only  how  to  prevent  it  ?  How  to  stand  between 
Phoebe  and  these  terrible  consequences  without  telling 
Sally  that  he  had  divined  all  ?  How  to  shield  Phoebe  with 
out  searing  her  with  the  fact  of  his  knowledge  ?  He  seemed 
to  be  in  an  impasse,  black  and  thick  as  the  night  and  im 
penetrable  as  a  jungle.  Yet  there  must  be  a  clue — he 
would  come  upon  it  if  only  he  groped  patiently  enough. 

To  and  fro  he  walked,  to  and  fro,  and  the  sound  of  ' '  Kill- 
dee"  grazing  came  as  regular  as  heart-beats. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  returned  to  the  house  and  lighted  the 
old  man's  bedroom  candle  for  him,  escorting  him  to  his 
door  on  the  way  to  his  own  room. 

As  he  entered  the  "guest  chamber"  he  stood  with  his  can 
dle  held  low,  looking  about  him  with  repulsion.  Richard  had 
slept  in  this  room  on  ...  that  night.  He  turned  with  a 
shudder  from  the  bed  with  its  honey-comb  spread  and 
square  pillows,  and,  opening  wide  the  shutters  as  Richard 
had  done,  sat  down  by  the  window.  The  same  scent  of 
brown  Windsor  soap  that  had  harassed  Richard  stole  about 
him. 

He  sat  frowning,  his  arms  folded  tightly,  gazing  out  at 
the  downy  blackness.  As  soon  as  the  house  was  quiet  he 
would  go  and  lie  on  the  sofa  in  the  library 

The  next  morning  about  ten  o'clock  Sally  returned  to 
Phoebe's  room  after  a  walk  with  Owen  in  the  garden. 

"Owen  wants  very  much  to  see  you,  Phoebe.  Do  you 
care  to  see  him?  Are  you  strong  enough?" 

The  colour  rushed  into  Phoebe's  face,  then  back  again, 
leaving  her  painfully  white.  She  closed  her  eyes  for  a 
second,  and  one  corner  of  her  mouth  trembled. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  131 

"Don't  trouble  if  you  feel  too  weak.  Owen  will  under 
stand  perfectly,"  said  Sally  kindly,  relieved  to  think  that 
the  girl  would  not  be  able  to  see  him,  after  all. 

Phoebe  opened  her  eyes  quickly,  and  they  were  bright 
and  scared  like  the  eyes  of  a  bird  that  one  holds,  no  matter 
how  discreetly,  in  one's  hand,  .  .  .  but  there  was  a  little, 
timid  half  smile  on  her  lips,  touching  in  its  wistfulness. 

"I'd  love  to  see  Cousin  Owen,"  she  said. 

Sally  went  to  fetch  him. 

Owen  came  quickly,  his  dark  face  eager  and  brimming 
with  tenderness,  though  he  had  tried  hard  to  compose  it  to 
an  ordinary  expression  on  entering.  His  big  figure  in  his 
crash  riding  clothes  seemed  to  fill  the  little  room.  When  he 
saw  Phoebe 's  face,  so  childish  and  wan,  between  the  bright 
braids  that  Sally  had  plaited  afresh  that  morning  and  laid 
out  over  the  pillow,  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes  in  spite  of  him 
self. 

"Little  Phoebe  .  .  .  dear  child,"  he  said,  drawing  up  a 
chair  and  taking  the  pale  little  hand  that  she  extended 
silently  in  both  his  big  brown  ones. 

Sally  had  seated  herself  by  the  window  and  was  gazing 
out  at  Hollybrook  Wood. 

Phoebe  lay  and  smiled  at  Owen,  but  her  lips  quivered 
so  that  she  could  not  speak  at  first.  lie  just  sat  quietly, 
stroking  the  slight  hand  that  he  held  and  smiling  back  at 
her. 

"How  .  .  .  how  is  Wizzy?"  she  managed  finally. 

"Wizzy  is  in  fine  feather.  "Would  you  like  him  to  call 
on  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Phoebe.  Somehow  Wizzy  seemed  the  only 
natural,  friendly  thought  that  had  come  to  her  in  long, 
dark  ages.  "Will  you  bring  him  some  time,  Cousin  Owen? 

5  t 

' '  This  very  afternoon,  if  you  like, ' '  said  Owen.  He  was 
wondering  why  that  little  peak  of  soft  hair  on  her  lovely 
forehead  should  seem  to  him  the  most  touching  thing 
he  had  ever  looked  at.  Where  the  heavy  curves  turned 
back  from  her  face  there  was  a  little  dusting  of  golden 
down  that  lay  on  her  white  brow  like  pollen  on  a  lily 
leaf. 

"A  child  .  .  .  just  a  child  herself,"  thought  Owen,  his 
heart  wrung  within  him,  .  .  .  and  he  thought  of  Eichard 
with  a  throe  of  rage. 

"Saliy  is  going  to  stay  with  you  another  night,  and 


132  WORLD'S-END 

David  can  bring  Wizzy  in  the  trap  that  fetches  her  some 
things  that  she  needs." 

Did  he  fancy  it,  or  did  Phoebe's  slight  fingers  cling 
closer  to  his  as  he  mentioned  that  Sally  would  stop  an 
other  night  with  her  ?  .  .  .  But  she  only  said : 

"Yes,  Cousin  Sally  is  so  kind,"  and  she  saw  that  Sally 
glanced  approvingly  at  her  when  she  spoke  of  her  as 
"Cousin  Sally"  to  Owen. 

"We  must  be  sure,  though,  that  Jimmy  Toots  is  safely 
shut  up,"  said  Owen.  "Wizzy  has  a  wholesome  terror  of 
Mr.  Toots." 

"He's  in  his  cage  all  the  time  now,"  said  Phoebe,  a  little 
sadly,  Owen  thought.  "He  was  very  naughty  and  bit 
Cousin  Salty.  He's  very  jealous." 

' '  Poor  Jimmy ! ' '  said  Owen.    ' '  Where  is  he  ? " 

"There,"  said  Phoebe,  pointing. 

"Can't  we  have  him  out  for  a  bit,  Sally?"  asked  her 
brother.  " I'll  watch  him. ' ' 

"He's  really  very  savage  with  me,  Owen." 

"Oh,  but  he  likes  me.  ...  I'll  watch  him,"  said  Owen, 
and  getting  up  he  released  the  crow,  who  with  an  exultant 
caw  flew  straight  to  the  foot  of  Phoebe 's  bed,  fluffed  out  all 
his  feathers  with  a  vigorous  shake,  then  smoothed  himself 
to  a  glossy  sleekness,  and,  hopping  down,  began  to  walk 
solemnly  up  the  slender  body  outlined  by  the  Marseilles 
quilt.  He  nestled  down  finally  against  her  cheek,  and  be 
gan  to  nibble  her  ear. 

"Dear  Jimmy,"  said  Phoebe,  stroking  him.  "Dear 
Jimmy,"  and  then  suddenly,  without  warning,  she  began 
to  cry  bitterly. 

"Don't  .  .  .  don't,"  pleaded  Owen,  wiping  away  the 
tears  with  his  big  handkerchief,  which  almost  hid  her  little 
face  from  view. 

"Sally  won't  let  me  stay  if  you  cry,  dear.  She  won't 
let  me  come  again.  .  .  .  Please,  dear,  please." 

Phoebe  caught  the  big,  gentle  hand,  and  held  it  tight 
against  her  face.  She  checked  her  tears  by  a  violent  effort, 
but  he  felt  the  brush  of  her  thick  lashes  against  his 
palm  as  she  blinked  away  the  blinding  drops.  His  heart 
ached  with  pity.  He  would  have  liked  to  gather  her 
up  against  his  breast  and  comfort  her  as  a  mother  does  a 
child. 

"I  think  you'd  really  better  go  now,  Owen,"  came  Sal 
ly's  quiet  voice  from  the  window. 


W  O  II  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  133 

Phoebe's  eyes  were  closed.     She  made  no  sign  to  detain 
him. 

"I'll  come  again  tomorrow,  dear,"  he  said,  rising. 
"Please,"  he  heard  her  whisper. 


XXI 

day  following  was  a  Tuesday,  and,  as  Mary  arrived 
Wednesday  afternoon,  Sally  was  obliged  to  return  to 
World 's-End  to  receive  her.  However,  the  girl  was  so 
much  better  that  she  felt  no  anxiety  in  leaving  her  for  a 
little  while,  though  she  was  slightly  nervous,  too,  because 
Owen  had  said  that  he  intended  to  remain  at  Nelson 's  Gift 
until  evening,  in  order  "to  cheer  Phoebe  up  a  little  and 
see  that  Wizzy  and  Jimmy  Toots  did  not  come  to  clips. ' ' 

Phoebe  came  down  at  nine  o'clock,  and  the  exertion  of 
dressing  had  brought  the  "two  little  blushes"  to  her  cheeks 
again.  To  Owen  her  eyes  looked  fearfully  large  and 
bright,  but  Sally  seemed  to  think  that  she  was  very  well 
for  the  time  being,  and  went  off,  promising  to  bring  Mary 
back  with  her  on  Thursday. 

When  the  carriage  had  driven  off  with  Sally,  Owen 
turned  to  Phoebe,  who  was  seated  listlessly  on  one  of  the 
hall  chairs,  and  said : 

"Now,  little  cousin,  don't  you  think  you  might  come  out 
into  your  garden  if  I  gave  you  my  arm?" 

"Not  the  garden  ..."  said  Phoebe,  and  he  saw  a  little 
shiver  run  through  her. 

"Into  the  air,  at  all  events,"  he  coaxed.  "It's  such  a 
wonderful  morning.  We'll  take  Jimmy  Toots  or  Wizzy, 
—whichever  you  prefer  of  those  two  implacables — and  go 
under  the  big  tulip-tree  near  the  rose-hedge.  Won't  you?" 

"We'll  take  clear  Wizzy,"  said  Phoebe,  "he's  so  un 
happy  when  he  isn't  with  you." 

Owen  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm,  and  they  went 
slowly  out  together  into  the  serene  morning,  so  fresh  and 
breeze-stirred  for  July.  "You  must  have  some  cushions," 
he  said  when  they  reached  the  tulip-tree,  and  he  went  back 
to  the  house  for  them. 

Phoebe  sat  on  the  warm,  sun-burnt  grass,  and  leaned 
against  the  great  bole,  looking  after  him.  The  colour  burnt 
deeper  in  her  cheeks,  then  left  them  wholly.  She  had 


134  WORLD'S-END 

thought,  ' '  How  kind,  how  kind  he  is !  "Would  he  be  kind 
to  me  ...  if  he  knew?" 

"There!  "What  do  you  mean  by  getting  pale  again?" 
exclaimed  Owen,  as  he  came  back  with  the  cushions  of  the 
library  sofa  and  made  her  sit  upon  one  while  he  tucked 
the  other  behind  her. 

"I  wish  I  could  take  you  away  with  me  to  some  lovely 
place  in  France  or  Italy  and  pet  you  into  health  again," 
he  continued,  looking  at  her  with  his  affectionate  hazel 
eyes.  "You  would  answer  beautifully  to  spoiling,  I'm 
sure. ' ' 

This  was  almost  too  much  for  Phoebe  .  .  .  the  contrast 
of  what  he  had  said  with  what  he  would  surely  say  if  ... 
he  knew.  She  drooped  her  head  and  played  with  a  stalk 
of  grass  without  answering.  "Poor  little  child!  Poor 
little,  desolate,  helpless  child ! ' '  thought  Owen,  divining  her 
simple  thoughts. 

He,  like  Sally,  was  resolved  that  Richard  should  marry 
her,  .  .  .  and  yet,  ...  as  he  looked  at  that  tender,  droop 
ing  face  with  the  delicate  fire  of  youth  all  quenched,  when 
he  thought  of  the  man  who  had  done  this  and  of  the  base 
ness  and  artificiality  of  Richard's  nature,  ...  it  seemed 
to  him  that  Phoebe's  fate  as  Richard's  wife  would  be 
even  more  deplorable  than  it  was  at  present;  and  sud 
denly  there  sprang  up  in  him  a  sharp  revulsion  from  the 
thought  of  handing  her  over  bound  by  legal  ties  to  her 
seducer. 

' '  There  is  something  wrong  with  us  all, ' '  he  thought  bit 
terly.  "Here  is  a  beautiful  young  creature  about  to  be 
come  a  mother,  and  instead  of  an  exulting  reverence  we 
feel  shame  and  pity,  just  because  the  law  has  not  set  its 
approval  upon  her  act.  She  has  only  followed  the  instinct 
of  a  dryad  in  spring-time,  .  .  .  and  she  sits  there,  dis 
graced,  wretched,  her  life  in  ruins." 

Phoebe  glanced  up,  feeling  the  spell  of  his  eyes  that 
dwelt  on  her  so  earnestly,  so  thoughtfully.  The  colour 
waved  again  over  her  white  face.  "Why  are  you  so  good 
to  me,  Cousin  Owen?"  she  asked,  with  a  touch  of  her  old 
impulsiveness. 

' '  Because  I  'm  fond  of  you,  Phoebe, ' '  he  answered  gently, 
"and  because  you  are  very  sweet  and  lovable." 

Phoebe  put  up  her  hands  to  her  face,  and  this  gesture 
twisted  Owen's  heart-strings. 

He  grew  pale,  and  then  he,  too,  gave  way  to  impulse. 


WORLD'S-END  135 

He  put  his  hand  gently  over  the  little  hands  that  hid  her 
face. 

"I'm  very  fond  of  you.  dear,"  he  said  again,  "and  noth 
ing,  nothing  in  all  the  world,  .  .  .  nothing  that  you  or 
anyone  else  might  do,  could  ever  change  my  affection  for 
you." 

"Oh,  no  ...  no  ..."  wailed  the  girl  from  behind  her 
sheltering  fingers,  and  it  was  like  a  faint  echo  of  that  ter 
rible  cry  in  the  wood,  which  still  haunted  him. 

"Nothing,  Phoebe,"  he  repeated  firmly;  "absolutely 
nothing. " 

Suddenly  Phoebe  caught  his  hand  in  both  hers,  and  held 
it  to  her  breast.  Her  wild,  wide  eyes  gazed  at  him  pite- 
ously. 

"I'm    afraid  ..."    she    wrhispered.      "I'm    so    afraid. 

;  i 

Owen  was  startled.  She  so  evidently  spoke  aloud,  with 
out  knowing  that  she  had  spoken. 

"Of  what,  dear?"  he  asked  gently. 

She  still  stared  at  him,  .  .  .  then  her  look  broke, 
dropped  away  from  his. 

"I  ...  I  was  just  .  .  .  thinking,"  she  faltered. 

"Well,  you  mustn't  think  too  much.  You  haven't  quite 
recovered  from  that  faint  in  the  woods.  Shall  I  tell  you 
some  stories  of  my  travels,  as  Othello  told  Desdemona? 
...  I'm  big  and  brown  enough  to  play  the  Moor." 

"Yes  .  .  .  please,"  said  Phoebe. 

So  he  leaned  on  his  elbow,  while  AVizzy  lay  in  a  blissful 
demi-doze  against  his  adored  boot,  only  rousing  now  and 
then  to  have  a  snap  at  the  cloud  of  gnats  that  swarmed 
near.  He  told  her  of  Hungary,  and  Eussia,  and  Turkestan, 
and  of  strange  Punjabi  customs,  and  of  how  he  had  been 
tempted  to  shoot  big  game  in  India,  but  had  desisted  be 
cause  of  the  look  he  had  once  seen  in  a  dying  stag's  eyes, 
so  that  he  determined  never  again  to  destroy  a  living 
creature.  And  here  Phoebe  looked  at  him  through  sudden 
tears  and  said : 

"I  think  you  have  the  most  beautiful  heart  hi  the 
world."  Owen  stopped  short,  hot  to  his  ears.  It 
seemed  just  as  though  he  had  been  making  a  bid  for  her 
admiration,  but  really  he  had  only  been  moved  by  the 
desire  to  tell  her  something  which  he  knew  would  fit  her 
mood. 

"Don't,    Phoebe,"   he   said   boyishly;    "you   make   me 


136  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

ashamed  to  have  told  you.    Most  decent  men  feel  like  that 
nowadays. ' ' 

"The  best,  kindest  heart  in  the  whole  world,"  said 
Phoebe  again,  with  a  touch  of  her  old  wilfulness  and  smil 
ing-  slightly  through  her  tears.  "If  all  men  were  .  .  ." 
She  broke  off,  and  again  her  face  whitened  and  drooped 
toward  her  young  breast. 

Owen  plunged  afresh  into  his  traveller's  tales.  After 
an  hour,  noticing  how  worn  she  looked  all  at  once,  he  said 
that  she  had  better  go  and  lie  down  until  dinner  time,  and 
he  took  both  her  hands,  pulling  her  gently  up  from  the 
grass,  and  then,  keeping  one  upon  his  arm  as  when  they 
had  come  out,  led  her  back  to  the  house. 

When  he  went  out  to  mount  The  Clown  late  that  after 
noon,  Phoebe  followed  him.  She  was  flushed  again  now, 
and,  her  eyes,  darkly  glowing,  had  a  curious,  fateful 
look  that  disturbed  him.  She  stood  silent  while  he 
mounted ;  then,  coming  close,  laid  her  hand  on  The  Clown's 
neck.  Her  dark,  burning  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  face. 

"I  want  to  thank  you,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  thank 
you,  and  I  don't  know  how.  .  .  .  But  it's  all  here.  ..." 
She  put  her  hands  passionately  to  her  breast.  "Please, 
Cousin  Owen,  always  remember  that  it's  here  .  .  .  here  in 
my  heart.  ..." 

' '  "Why,  Phoebe  dear, ' '  protested  Owen,  trying  to  take  it 
lightly,  "one  would  think  I  was  off  for  a  long  journey!" 

"No  ...  I  just  wanted  to  say  it,"  she  answered  with 
her  wistful  smile. 

Owen  rode  off  with  a  troubled,  anxious  feeling  that  he 
could  not  account  for.  The  nearer  he  got  to  World 's-End 
the  more  this  feeling  increased. 

Suddenly,  under  an  intuitive  impulse  not  to  be  denied, 
when  he  was  in  sight  of  the  very  gates,  he  pulled  The 
Clown's  head  sharply  round,  and  rode  back  to  Nelson's 
Gift  at  a  smart  pace. 

When  he  reached  it  he  swung  down,  tied  The  Clown  to  a 
bough,  and  rapped  with  his  crop-handle  on  the  front  door. 

Lily  came  sauntering,  a  mild  surprise  in  her  bovine  eyes 
as  she  saw  who  it  was.* 

'  Can  I  speak  to  Miss  Phoebe  a  moment  ? ' '  asked  Owen. 

'Miss  Phoebe,  she  done  gone  out." 

'Where?" 

'I  dunno,  suh." 

'When?" 


WORLD'S-END  137 

"  'Bout  ten  minutes  ago,  I  reckon." 

Owen  turned  abruptly,  and  ran  up  the  sloping  lawn 
at  the  side  of  the  house,  from  whence  one  had  a  pretty  clear 
view  of  the  surrounding  fields.  He  looked  in  vain  at  first; 
then  he  saw  her,  a  little  figure  in  a  long,  dark  cape,  moving 
steadily  up  a  grassy  shoulder  towards  Idler's  Mountain. 
His  heart  in  his  throat,  he  knew  not  why,  he  set  out  after 
her,  still  running. 

She  was  walking  with  her  head  bent,  evidently  absorbed 
jn  her  own  thoughts,  for  she  did  not  look  round  at  the 
noise  of  pursuing  feet,  and  when,  at  last  close  to  her,  he 
called  "Phoebe!"  she  started  with  a  wild  cry,  and  some 
thing  that  she  had  been  carrying  under  her  cape  fell  at 
her  feet  and  broke.  The  next  instant  the  air  was  full  of 
the  dead-sweet,  pungent  odour  of  chloroform. 

Phoebe,  white  as  death,  her  hands  to  her  heart,  trem 
bling  from  head  to  foot,  stood  wildly  staring  at  him  above 
the  broken  bottle. 

"Phoebe!"  cried  Owen;  then,  as  the  truth  rushed  on 
him,  "Oh,  Phoebe!"  he  cried  again,  and  snatched  her 
roughly  up  in  his  arms,  as  though  snatching  her  from  some 
hideous  peril. 

The  girl  struggled  desperately  to  speak  with  coherence. 
Even  in  this  hour  of  unexpected  detection  she  clung  madly 
to  her  purpose.  She  must  mislead  him,  beguile  him  in 
some  way.  If  she  did  not,  they  would  never  trust  her  alone 
again,  .  .  .  she  would  never  be  able  to  escape. 

"I  was  ...  I  was  ...  I  was  going,  ..."  she  stam 
mered  painfully. 

Owen  set  her  gently  down,  keeping  his  arm  about  her. 
He  was  whiter  now  than  she  was.  "Yes,  dear,  yes?  .  .  . 
"Well?"  he  said,  trying  to  follow  her  mood. 

"I  was  going  ...  to  take  it  ...  for  a  horse  that  .  .  . 
that  broke  his  leg.  A  horse  up  ...  up  in  the  mountain." 

A  profound  instinct  told  Owen  to  let  her  think  him  de 
ceived. 

"  Well,  dear,  don 't  worry.  .  .  .  We  can  get  some  more, " 
he  said,  soothing  her.  "I'm  sorry  I  gave  you  such  a  start, 
but  I  just  remembered  something  I  wanted  to  tell  you." 
His  brain  worked  like  lightning.  ' '  I  thought  perhaps  that 
while  you  were  still  feeling  so  weak  you  would  rather  not 
see  Mary  for  a  few  days.  So  I  just  turned  back  to  tell  you 
that  I  could  manage  it  perfectly  for  you  without  hurting 
Mary's  feelings." 


138  WORLD'S-END 

"Thank  you.  ..."  whispered  the  girl. 

She  could  scarcely  stand  upon  her  feet,  even  with  his 
arm  round  her.  Suddenly  she  clung  to  him  with  all  her 
might,  clutching  him  with  both  hands,  pressing  her  face 
against  his  breast.  "Oh,  I'm  afraid  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  .  .  ." 
she  stammered.  "Don't  leave  me!  .  .  .  Don't  let  her  take 
me.  .  .  .  You  are  .  .  .  are  .  .  .  the  only  .  .  .  the  only  one 

I'm  not  afraid  of.     Don't  leave  me  .  .  .  don't  leave  me. 
?  j 

Holding  the  convulsed  figure  close  against  him,  .  .  . 
pressing  her  head  to  him  with  a  hand  on  the  thick,  loosened 
hair,  .  .  .  shivering  with  pity  and  a  sick  dread  of  what 
might  have  been  had  he  not  turned  back,  .  .  .  Owen  felt 
suddenly  within  him  a  wild  light  such  as  breaks  sometimes 
through  the  blackest  storm.  It  blinded  him  for  a  moment, 
.  .  .  shook  all  his  manhood  with  its  sudden,  appalling 
brightness  of  solution.  Then,  bending  his  head  close  to 
hers,  he  said : 

"I'll  never  leave  you,  Phoebe,  if  you  wish  it.  Listen, 
dear,  .  .  .  don 't  be  frightened.  Could  you  .  .  .  Will  you 
marry  me,  Phoebe?" 

Clinging  to  him  closer  than  ever,  her  little  fingers 
clenched  in  the  stuff  of  his  coat,  she  went  on  pleading  des 
perately,  ' '  Don 't  leave  me  !  ...  Don 't  leave  me ! "  She 
had  not  taken  in  a  word  of  what  he  had  said.  And  Owen, 
dreading  the  consequences  of  this  frantic  reaction  from 
one  ghastly  terror  to  another,  .  .  .  the  recoil  from  the  ter 
ror  of  death  to  the  terror  of  life,  .  .  .  soothed  her  as  best 
he  could,  half  lifting  her  from  the  ground  in  his  effort  to 
give  physical  support  to  her  poor  body,  shaken  as  by  an 
ague  with  throes  of  unreasoning  fear. 

Little  by  little,  coaxing,  scolding  gently  now  and  then 
as  with  a  panic-stricken  child,  he  got  her  to  a  fallen  log, 
and  seating  himself  upon  it,  with  Phoebe  still  clinging  to 
him,  held  her  against  his  side  and  smoothed  the  tangled 
hair  away  from  her  wet  forehead.  She  grew  quite  still 
after  a  few  minutes,  catching  her  breath  convulsively  now 
and  then,  like  a  child  after  a  fit  of  sobbing.  And  the  little 
face,  so  white,  so  piteous,  thrown  back  in  abandonment 
upon  his  arm,  with  closed  eyelids  quivering  like  the  wings 
of  birds  clumsily  shot  and  dying  painfully  in  helpless  ter 
ror,  moved  Owen  as  nothing  had  moved  him  since  that  far- 
off  day  of  his  mother's  burial.  Love  and  pity  in  their 
purest  forms  filled  him  as  he  looked  down  at  Phoebe's 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  139 

wan  face  and  smoothed  away  from  it  the  rich  hair  so 
strangely  contrasting  in  its  vivid  brilliancy  and  vigorous, 
super-abundant  life. 

He  did  not  reason  about  what  he  meant  to  do.  It  came 
as  an  overpowering  instinct, — the  instinct  to  lift  this  lovely, 
stricken  child  out  of  the  dark  waters  that  were  submerg 
ing  her  into  the  safety  of  his  love  and  tenderness.  And 
even  through  his  immense  pity  he  felt  a  leap  of  exultation 
as  he  thought  how  he  could  change  all  for  her,  .  .  .  rescue 
her  from  her  own  fears,  from  Sally,  from  the  dastard  who 
had  betrayed  her,  from  fate  itself,  .  .  .  could  set  her  in 
a  sure  refuge,  and  give  her,  if  not  happiness,  at  least  peace 
and,  in  time,  content.  And,  as  he  was  very  human,  the 
thought  also  flared  through  him,  "In  time  .  .  .  perhaps 
love."  But  he  shook  this  thought  angrily  from  him,  stung 
by  the  consciousness  of  a  certain  baseness  that  seemed  al 
ways  to  mingle  with  the  highest  human  motives.  Yet  she 
was  made  for  love — had  he  the  right,  taking  advantage  of 
her  extremity,  to  shut  her  forever  in  the  cold  house  of 
grateful  affection  ?  And  at  the  thought  of  her  gratitude  a 
coldness  flowed  through  his  uplifted  mood.  Long  years 
spent  with  a  wife  who  gave  him  gratitude.  .  .  .  And 
Phoebe 's  was  a  passionately  grateful  nature.  .  .  .  And  he 
was  a  man  to  whom  tepidity  in  such  relations  had  always 
seemed  revolting.  What  if  he  should  come  to  love  her  with 
that  force  of  passion  which  he  knew  well  was  latent  in  him? 
The  future,  like  a  great  threatening  form,  drew  close  and 
thrust  aside  the  present.  But  then  he  looked  down  again 
at  Phoebe,  and  all  doubts  gave  way  before  the  appeal  of 
her  unconscious  face, — the  helpless  weight  of  her  spent 
body  against  his  breast. 

"Phoebe  dear,"  he  said,  when  he  thought  that  she  had 
recovered  enough  to  understand  him,  "I  want  you  to  lis 
ten  to  me  quietly.  You  will,  won't  you,  dear?" 

For  answer  she  lifted  her  heavy  lids,  and  looked  up  at 
him,  and  the  trust  in  those  dark  eyes  thrilled  his  heart  with 
something  more  than  love,  deeper  than  pity. 

"You  trust  me,  don't  you,  Phoebe?" 

She  groped  for  his  hand,  her  eyes  still  on  his,  and 
quickly,  before  he  guessed  what  she  would  do,  kissed  it 
with  a  little  humble  kiss,  cold  as  ice. 

Owen  flushed,  and  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes. 

"Could  you  trust  yourself  quite  to  me,  dear?  ...  I  am 
far,  far  older  than  you,  but  I  would  be  very  good  to  you, 


140  WORLD'S-END 

little  Phoebe.  If  you  would  be  my  wife" — his  heart 
seemed  to  pause  in  spite  of  his  absolute  decision — ' '  I  would 
take  you  away  with  me  and  make  you  well  again." 

A  wild,  faint  smile  stirred  the  little  face.  Phoebe 
thought  that  her  friend  was  jesting  with  her  to  divert  her 
from  her  suffering. 

"No  ...  no  ...  Phoebe  ..."  he  said,  holding  her 
tighter,  "don't  smile.  ...  I  am  in  earnest.  ...  I  want 
you  to  let  me  marry  you.  ...  I  want  to  make  you  well 
and  happy  again.  Don't  you  think  you  could  be  happy 
with  me  if  you  tried  very  hard,  Phoebe  dear?" 

And  this  time  he  smiled  at  her  in  his  turn.  She  stared 
up  at  him  with  wide  eyes,  in  which  was  sheer  amaze 
ment,  then  dread  again.  Suddenly  she  struggled  to  rise, 
and  he  loosed  his  arms,  leaving  her  quite  free. 

"I  don't  want  you,  dear,  unless  you  want  to  come  to 
me,"  he  said  gently. 

Phoebe's  lips  parted,  but  no  words  would  come.  She 
sank  beside  him,  and  hid  her  face  against  his  knee.  Her 
long  hair  fell  over  her  just  as  in  pictures  of  the  repentant 
Magdalene.  Owen  frowned,  and  gathered  it  from  about 
her  hidden  face.  And  suddenly  a  wild  hope  leaped  in  him. 
' '  If  she  would  only  confide  in  me.  ...  If  she  would  only 
tell  me,  then  all  would  be  clear  and  simple."  But  the  next 
instant  he  felt  that  this  hope  was  folly.  Always  lenient  to 
human  weakness  in  others,  always  moved  by  a  passion  of 
pity  before  the  pitiful, — that  disarming  chivalrie  tender 
ness  of  his  feeling  for  Phoebe  made  it  impossible  for  him 
to  bring  stern  codes  to  bear  on  her ;  he,  the  man,  could  only 
feel  how  little  and  helpless  and  wronged  she  was.  Who 
could  expect  such  a  child  to  lay  bare  to  the  man  who  had 
just  done  her  the  greatest  honour  in  his  power  the  fact  of 
her  own  dishonour  ?  Who  could  expect  her  to  shut  the  last 
door  of  escape  with  her  own  hands.  Besides,  young  and 
childish  as  she  was,  there  was  in  her  that  gift  of  passionate 
gratitude  which  might  prevent  her  from  accepting  his 
offer,  if  she  knew  that  compassion  had  prompted  it.  And 
yet  ...  he  felt  that  it  would  be  a  triumphantly  beautiful 
thing  if  she  could  force  herself  to  tell  him  all. 

Kneeling  there  with  her  face  hidden  against  his  knee, 
Phoebe  seemed  to  herself  to  be  rushing  round  and  round 
between  high  walls  in  utter,  vacant  darkness.  This  must 
be  one  of  the  wild,  confused  dreams  that  had  troubled  her 
so  sorely  of  late.  It  was  not  true,  of  course.  Perhaps  she 


WORLD'S-EXD  141 

had  really  taken  the  chloroform,  after  all,  and  was  dying, 
and  this  was  one  of  the  dreams  that  came  with  death.  She 
had  heard  people  say  that  chloroform  gives  strange, 
queerly  real  dreams. 

But  presently  Owen's  quiet  voice  breaking  through  the 
tumult  of  her  thoughts  made  her  quite  sure  somehow  that 
it  was  not  in  a  dream  that  he  spoke  to  her. 

"I  love  you  very  dearly,  Phoebe  darling,"  it  said. 

The  blinding  truth !  He  loved  her  ...  he  wanted  to 
marry  her  .  .  .  Phoebe  began  to  tremble  with  a  new  trem 
bling, — and  suddenly  the  bitter  tears  came. 

"I  can't  ...  I  can't.  ..."  she  whispered  so  low  that 
he  could  not  make  out  the  words. 

Owen  bent  over  and  lifted  her  to  his  side  again. 

"Will  you,  dear?"  he  said,  and,  as  on  the  day  when  she 
had  begun  to  weep  under  "Jimmy  Toots'  "  caresses,  he 
took  out  his  big  handkerchief  and  wiped  away  the  tears 
that  made  all  her  white  little  face  glisten  as  with  rain. 

"No,  no  ...  I  can't  .  .  .  You  wouldn't  want  me  if 
...  no  ...  no  ...  I  love  you  too  much.  ..." 

"Dear  heart,  that's  an  odd  reason  for  not  marrying 
me." 

"Oh,  I  can't  ...  I  can't  ...  I  can't,"  she  kept  pite- 
ously  repeating. 

'Are  you  afraid  of  me,  dear?" 

'Oh,  no  .  .  .  no  .  .  ." 

'You  said  just  now  that  you  loved  me." 

'Ah,  I  do!  ...  I  do!" 
'Then  Phoebe  .  .  .?" 

'I  can't  let  you  marry  me  ...  I  ...  I  ...  no  one  is 
worthy  to  be  your  wife." 

"Dear  child,  that  is  very  sweet  nonsense,  but  it  is  non 
sense.  Look,  dear, — this  is  my  mother's  engagement  ring. 
If  you'll  lot  me  I'll  put  it  on  your  finger  now." 

He  slipped  from  his  watch  chain  the  little  ring  of  old 
green  enamel,  with  its  bands  of  brilliants  and  emeralds  set 
like  roses,  and  held  it  towards  her.  "It  will  just  fit,  I 
think,"  he  said,  smiling  very  tenderly  into  her  scared  eyes, 
where  a  sort  of  doubtful,  troubled  hope  was  beginning  to 
shine.  "My  mother  had  little  hands  like  yours,  dear." 

This  ring  seemed  to  Phoebe  like  the  wonderful  talisman 
of  legend.  Once  on  her  hand,  all  the  world  would  be  trans 
formed.  She  sat  gazing  at  it,  her  tears  checked,  her  heart 
beating  wildly.  She  dared  not  ...  it  would  be  dreadful, 


142  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

wicked  beyond  words,  to  put  on  his  mother's  ring  ...  to 
let  him  marry  her  .  .  .  her  of  all  the  world.  She  dared 
not.  She  would  not  do  this  wicked,  wicked  thing  .  .  .  and 
yet,  there  on  that  brown  palm  so  lovingly  extended  to  her, 
lay  the  magic  that  would  turn  dishonour  into  honour. — a 
world  of  menace  into  a  world  of  safety.  His  wife  .  .  .his 
wife  .  .  .  Owen  Randolph's  wife  .  .  .  safe,  shielded,  loved, 
cherished.  Then  suddenly  a  little  voice,  fine  as  a  hair,  be 
gan  speaking  as  it  were  within  her  brain:  "You  forget," 
said  this  tiny,  piercing  voice, — for  surely  it  was  not  herself 
thinking — "you  forget — your  Cousin  Owen  does  not  look 
on  such  faults  as  yours  as  the  world  looks.  Don't  you  re 
member  how  kindly  he  spoke  of  that  poor  farm-girl  wbo 
was  betrayed?  Yes — yes.  Remember  that.  Ila  doesn't 
condemn  sins  such  as  yours  as  the  world  does,  lie  spoke 
pityingly  of  poor  Jessie — forgivingly.  //  lie  knew  all  he 
would  surely  forgive  you.  Why  tell  him  to  give  him  pain, 
when  he  would  forgive  you  in  any  case  ?  .  .  . " 

On  and  on  went  this  voice,  and  Phoebe  listened  to  it 
like  one  tranced,  her  eyes  upon  the  little  ring  in  which 
lay  salvation.  And  now  the  voice  melted  into  her  own 
thought.  .  .  .  "He  would  forgive  me  if  he  knew.  .  .  . 
Why  hurt  him  by  telling  him?  .  .  .  lie  would  forgive 
me.  .  .  .  He  would  forgive  me.  ..." 

In  the  wild  fever  and  confusion  of  her  mind  she  over 
looked  the  most  vital  point  of  all — the  terrible  fact  that,  in 
consenting  to  marry  Owen,  she  would  be  consenting  to  his 
belief  that  her  child  would  be  also  his.  Yes,  strange  as 
it  may  seem,  in  her  bewilderment  and  torture  this  dreadful 
consequence  of  her  possible  yielding  escaped  her  altogether. 
But  she  thought  of  Sally's  black,  resolute  eyes  .  .  .  and 
her  heart  shook  within  her  .  .  .  Richard's  face  flashed  be 
fore  her,  and  shame  dissolved  her.  She  threw  herself  on 
the  ground  near  his  feet  and  broke  into  a  storm  of  sob 
bing. 

Owen  lifted  her  again.  He  felt  that  the  time  had  come 
to  check  these  rending  outbursts  of  emotion.  "Phoebe," 
he  said,  feigning  a  sternness  that  was  far  from  his  heart, 
which  felt  sore  with  pity ;  "do  you  mean  that  you  wish  me 
to  go  away  and  not  come  here  any  more  ? ' ' 

And  at  this  dire  question  the  girl  started  and  stiffened 
in  his  arms  as  though  he  had  stabbed  her.  "Well,  then, 
either  I  must  go  away  ...  for  good  ...  or  you  must  tell 
me  that  you  will  marry  me." 


S-EXD  143 

"Oh,  no  ...  no,  Cousin  Owen!  ...  I  couldn't  bear  it 
...  I  couldn't  bear  it.  ...  Oh,  I  am  so  afraid  again!" 

"You  don't  love  me,  after  all?" 

"Yes,  yes.  .  .  .     Oh,  more  than  anyone.  ..." 

"Tli en  hold  out  your  hand,  sweetheart." 

The  girl  shuddered  violently.  He  heard  her  teeth  chat 
tering  in  spite  of  her  tightly  clenched  jaws.  Suddenly  she 
thrust  out  to  him  her  little  hand,  shaking  as  writh  palsy, 
lie  slipped  the  ring  home  on  her  finger,  then  kissed  it 
softly. 

XXII 

WEN  went  straight  to  Sally's  room  when  he  returned 
to  World 's-End.  She  was  dressing  for  dinner,  but 
said,  "Wait  a  minute,"  and,  slipping  on  a  wrapper,  opened 
the  door  for  him.  He  had  rarely  of  late  years  seen  his  sis 
ter  with  her  hair  down,  and  now  the  black,  thick  locks, 
lightly  touched  with  grey,  that  hung  about  her  face  gave  it 
an  unnatural  look.  He  came  in,  and,  standing  near  her 
dressing-table,  took  up  one  of  the  ivory  boxes,  examining 
the  "Nag's  head"  on  it  as  though  he  had  never  before 
seen  that  aristocratic  little  animal.  He  did  not  believe  in 
the  theory  of  softening  bad  news  to  people,  and  yet  he  felt 
that  what  he  was  about  to  tell  her  would  be  so  overwhelm 
ing  that  he  delayed  the  moment  involuntarily,  his  heart 
beating  like  a  boy's  about  to  confess  some  misdemeanour 
to  a  not  over-indulgent  mother.  She  stood  looking  at  him, 
a  dread  suspense  in  her  eyes.  She  was  very  pale. 

"Sally,"  he  said  suddenly,  putting  down  the  little  box 
and  turning  to  her,  ' '  what  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  will  be  a 
shock  to  you  .  .  .  but  there's  no  use  doling  out  such 
things.  I'm  going  to  be  married  ...  to  Phoebe  Nelson." 

Sally  went  white  as  bone.  Her  lips  parted,  and  she 
stood  gazing  at  him  without  a  word. 

"I  know  how  you  must  feel,"  he  went  on,  beginning  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room.  "It's  so  unexpected  ...  so 
against  my  theories  .  .  .  but  then  I  was  never  a  consistent 
person,  Sally,  as  you  know."  He  smiled  at  her  rather 
wryly,  but  there  came  no  answering  smile  to  Sally's  face. 
"I've  never  yet  found  an  '1st'  or  'ite'  or  'ic'  that  would 
label  me  exactly.  .  .  .  Just  a  blundering  poor  devil  going 
at  things  the  best  wray  I  knew  how.  .  .  .  Now  I've  blun 
dered  into  marriage  .  .  .  but  I  love  Phoebe  very  dearly." 


144  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

He  was  saying  more  than  he  wished,  and  more  than  he 
had  meant  to,  but  Sally's  stark,  dumfounded  face  seemed 
to  call  for  some  veil  of  words  to  cover  its  nakedness.  Blank 
amazement,  rage,  scorn,  ruthlessness,  all  were  in  her  black, 
steady  gaze.  Her  likeness  to  Richard  became  startling. 

Suddenly  she  sat  down  sideways  in  the  nearest  chair, 
and,  gripping  its  back  with  both  hands  till  the  knuckles 
whitened,  shook  back  her  loose  hair  and  gave  a  short,  harsh 
laugh. 

"Don't  ..."  said  Owen  involuntarily,  putting  out  his 
hand.  This  laugh  struck  him  as  dreadful. 

"Since  when  ..."  began  Sally;  she  moistened  her  dry 
lips.  "Since  when  have  you  felt  the  tender  passion?" 

Owen  went  toward  the  door. 

"I  do  not  understand  your  attitude,"  he  said  coldly. 

There  had  been  something  ferocious  both  in  that  laugh 
and  the  sneer  of  her  question;  he  felt  that  he  looked  on  a 
woman  he  had  never  known.  He  had  never  glimpsed  the 
tigress  of  maternity  in  Sally,  as  Mary  had  once  done.  That 
she  was  thinking  of  Richard,  and  of  the  dark  seciet  which 
she  could  not  tell  him,  he  knew  well, — but  he  did  not 
realise  that  her  chief  fury  lay  in  the  fact  of  his  marrying 
at  all,  not  of  his  marrying  the  victim  of  Richard's  wanton 
egoism.  He  had  not  yet  taken  in  the  full  consequences  that 
would  result  for  Richard  and  for  Sally  herself  from  his 
marriage  with  anyone. 

But  Sally  had  conned  them  over  one  by  one  for  years. 
"The  thing  that  she  greatly  feared  was  come  upon  her," 
and  she  thirsted  to  strike  as  she  had  been  stricken.  And 
yet  she  was  as  helpless  as  some  spider  meshed  in  its  own 
vitals.  "Were  she  to  tell  him  all,  Richard's  disinheritance 
would  be  doubly  sure.  Now,  at  least,  for  sheer  decency's 
sake  he  would  have  to  provide  properly  for  him  in  his 
will,  though  the  great  fortune  which  she  had  come  to  look 
upon  only  as  a  trust  for  Richard,  temporarily  in  Owen's 
hands,  would  inevitably  pass  to  the  children  of  the  latter. 
...  A  blast  of  fire  seemed  to  strike  her  here  ...  it  was 
Richard 's  own  child  that  would  take  his  place !  .  .  .  That 
child,  begotten  in  a  moment  of  May  madness,  would  have 
all  of  which  Richard  was  to  be  dispossessed.  For  a  second 
Sally  felt  that  this  terrible  fire  in  her  heart  and  brain  was 
madness.  Yet  she  must  control  herself.  All  was  irrevoca 
bly  lost  if  she  did  not  control  herself. 

"Wait.  .  .  .     Wait,  Owen,"  she  stammered,  the  smile 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  145 

with  which  she  tried  to  veil  the  look  of  rapacious  cruelty 
on  her  face  distorting  it  to  a  singular  ugliness.  "My  joke 
was  in  bad  taste  .  .  .  but  it  was  only  a  joke.  ...  I'm 
.  .  . "  She  swallowed.  ' '  I  'm  sorry  if  I  offended  you. ' ' 

He  came  back  slowly. 

"I'm  going  to  ask  you,"  he  said,  "not  to  be  sarcastic 
with  Phoebe  when  you  see  her." 

A  strange  look  flickered  over  Sally's  face,  despite  all  her 
fiercely  set  will.  She  rose,  and  taking  up  a  brush  began 
brushing  out  her  hair  so  that  its  thickness  came  between 
her  and  his  cold  look. 

"I  don't  think  you  need  have  said  that,"  she  remarked, 
turning  his  request  shrewdly  against  himself.  "I  have 
tried  my  poor  best  to  be  kind  to  the  girl." 

She  could  not  have  uttered  Phoebe's  name  then,  though 
its  absence  had  meant  complete  severance  between  her  and 
Owen. 

He  replied  in  an  unmoved  voice : 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  her.  But  you  have  also 
been  kind  to  me, — until  today." 

"It  isn't  like  you,  Owen,  to  harp  on  a  mistaken  jest, 
and  treat  it  like  a  deadly  offense." 

"I  confess  that  I've  been  deeply  hurt." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"Then  there's  no  more  to  be  said.  We  shall  be  married 
at  once.  I've  spoken  to  her  father.  He  is  willing.  I  shall 
take  Phoebe  abroad  at  once.  But  I'm  keeping  you  from 
dressing. ' ' 

He  went  to  the  door  again,  then  once  more  turned  back. 

"Please  do  me  the  favour  of  letting  me  tell  Mary  of  this 
myself." 

"Just  as  you  wish,  of  course." 

"Thanks." 

He  went  out. 

Sally  let  the  brush  fall  into  her  lap,  and  sat  staring  at 
her  own  eyes  in  the  mirror.  The  candle-light,  falling  from 
silver  sconces  on  either  side,  deepened  the  shadows  in  her 
eye-sockets  and  the  flat  hollows  of  her  cheeks.  She  saw 
plainly  the  skull  under  her  own  flesh.  And  she  smiled 
now  grimly  enough.  It  was  fitting  that  a  death's-head 
should  look  back  at  her  from  her  own  face.  The  utmost 
calamity,  short  of  Richard's  death,  had  overtaken  her. 
And,  as  in  a  fiery  panorama,  pictures  of  the  detestable  fu 
ture  unrolled  before  her;  visions  of  Phoebe  in  her  place, 


146  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

in  Eichard's  place  at  World 's-End — Phoebe,  the  little, 
easily  seduced  country-girl — at  the  head  of  the  table, — 
ordering  the  servants, — receiving  guests.  Phoebe,  no  longer 
"little  Phoebe  Nelson,"  but'  Mrs.  Owen  Randolph,  of 
World 's-End.  Phoebe,  with  a  right  to  have  the  nag's  head 
on  her  brushes, — on  her  linen!  .  .  .  Sally  caught  up  the 
brush  from  her  lap  and  hurled  it  against  the  wall  with  all 
her  might.  Some  of  the  delicate,  cream-hued  plastering 
broke  away  with  the  impact,  leaving  a  rough  grey  patch 
shaped  like  a  tulip-leaf.  ...  It  was  the  act  of  an  enraged 
peasant  woman, — the  primitive  spending  of  rage  on  inani 
mate  objects,  inherited  from  the  violent  old  founder  of 
their  family,  and  which  even  Owen  himself  had  never  com 
pletely  outgrown. 

A  little  sobered  by  her  physical  outbreak,  Sally  rose  and 
began  putting  up  her  hair  with  icy,  resolute  fingers.  She 
would  not  ring  for  Mirabel.  She  could  not  have  restrained 
herself  from  striking  had  the  girl  made  a  blunder  in  her 
toilet.  And  as  she  fastened  the  hooks  of  her  thin  gown, 
tearing  the  delicate  stuff  in  her  nervousness,  she  kept  swim 
ming  as  it  were  frantically  round  the  dark  pool  of  her 
own  thought,  like  some  desperate  creature  fallen  in  a  deep 
reservoir  and  seeking  for  some  chink  of  egress  from  its 
steep,  slippery  sides. 

There  must  be  a  way  of  stopping  it.  That  it  should  go 
on,  should  accomplish  itself,  was  impossible  .  .  .  utterly 
impossible.  She  thought  of  threatening  Phoebe  with  a  dis 
closure  of  the  whole  affair,  but  then,  like  a  rank  bit  in  the 
mouth  of  a  vicious  mare,  the  thought  of  Richard 's  part  in 
it  checked  her.  No,  but  she  would  wire  Richard  to  come 
back  at  once,  .  .  .  better,  far  better  that  Richard  should 
marry  the  little  fool  than  that  she  should  become  Owen's 
wife.  But  no,  again,  it  was  not  Phoebe,  but  she,  she  who 
had  played  the  fool!  .  .  .  How  easily  she  had  been  duped 
by  the  girl's  sham  of  soft,  listless  misery !  .  .  .  And  all  the 
time,  all  the  time  that  crafty  little  wretch,  so  seemingly 
child-like  and  pliable,  had  held  to  her  sly  purpose  with  a 
will  of  iron ;  .  .  .  the  determination  to  play  upon  one  man 
with  a  cunning  learned  from  her  experience  with  another, 
and  this  time  to  make  sure  that  marriage,  not  a  mere  fleet 
ing  moment  of  lawless  pleasure,  should  be  the  outcome! 
.  .  .  "Oh,  I  did  well  to  distrust  that  bold,  red  mouth  of 
hers!"  she  thought.  And  in  her  angry,  distorted  imagina 
tion  poor  Phoebe  figured  as  a  young  Delilah. 


WORLD'S-END 

"He  will  rue  it,"  she  thought  savagely.  "Oh,  he  will 
rue  it  to  the  bitter  end  if  he  marries  her!  .  .  .  She  will 
drag  his  name  in  the  dust.  .  .  .  She  will  take  the  next 
lover  that  she  fancies,  and  the  next  and  the  next!" 

Then  suddenly  she  felt  a  deep  sense  of  injury,  of  wrath 
ful  resentment  at  what  she  chose  to  term  Phoebe's  "base 
ingratitude. ' ' 

Yes,  she  really  thought  of  Phoebe's  consent  to  marry 
Owen  as  an  act  of  the  blackest  ingratitude  to  her,  Sally. 
When  she  had  done  all  in  her  power  to  shield  the  girl,  had 
promised  her  safety,  had  even  promised  that  Richard 
should  marry  her.  But  it  must  be  stopped.  She  would 
tell  Mary  everything,  and  together  they  could  surely  think 
of  some  plan  to  stop  this  monstrous  marriage.  Yet,  no 
.  .  .  she  could  not  confide  in  Mary.  Mary  had  never  un 
derstood  or  rightly  valued  Richard.  It  was  the  one  flaw  in 
their  relations  with  each  other.  Besides  Phoebe  was  Mary's 
first  cousin.  Then,  too,  she  could  not  run  the  risk  of 
Mary's  telling  Owen.  Mary  had  such  strange  ideas  of 
candour  and  the  perfect  frankness  demanded  by  friend 
ship.  But  what  to  do?  Any  action  must  be  quick,  imme 
diate.  Why  they  might  be  going  to  be  married  tomorrow 
or  the  next  day! 

Sally's  heart  seemed  to  faint  in  her  breast  at  this 
thought.  If  she  had  only  a  mouthful  of  brandy  .  .  .  but 
she  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  Mirabel  fussing  about 
her.  She  snatched  up  her  bottle  of  German  cologne  from 
the  dressing-table  and  took  a  quick  gulp.  .  .  .  The  fiery, 
scented  stuff  almost  strangled  her.  ...  She  coughed, 
gasping  for  breath,  and  tears  of  pain  ran  down  her  face. 
Then  the  hot  liquid  bit  into  her  stomach.  She  felt  revived. 
It  was  in  some  novel  that  she  had  read  of  a  woman's  drink 
ing  cologne.  It  was  true  then — that  it  had  the  effect  of 
brandy.  And  it  struck  her  as  odd  that  something  read  in 
a  novel  should  prove  of  practical  use. 

Gathering  her  thoughts  together  as  she  would  have 
gathered  a  wind-tossed  cloak,  she  went  down  to  the  "rose 
room. ' ' 

Owen  was  standing  by  the  open  window  dressed  for  din 
ner.  They  went  side  by  side,  in  silence,  out  into  the 
West  Portico,  where  breakfast  and  dinner  were  always 
served  at  World  's-End  during  the  summer  and  late  spring. 

The  cologne,  or  possibly  her  own  fiery  will,  had  certainly 
steadied  Sally's  nerves. 


148  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

She  said  quite,  naturally  as  they  sat  clown : 

"I  suppose  the  old  gentleman  is  delighted?" 

"He  is  pleased,  I  think,"  said  Owen.  "I  fancy  that  he 
has  worried  a  great  deal  about  what  Phoebe's  fate  would 
be  when  he  died — and  he  has  a  liking  for  me." 

"He  would  have,  of  course.  You've  been  awfully  good 
to  them  both." 

"I'm  very  fond  of  them  both." 

"How  long  will  the  engagement  be?" 

"We  shall  be  married  next  Monday  and  take  "Wednes 
day  's  steamer  for  Havre. ' ' 

This  "we"  was  like  the  sting  of  a  whip  to  Sally. 
"  'Happy's  the  wooing  that's  not  long  a-doing,'  "  she 
could  not  refrain  from  quoting,  but  she  looked  down  at 
her  plate  as  she  said  it,  so  that  Owen  could  not  see  the 
flare  of  malice  in  her  black  eyes.  He  said  nothing,  how 
ever,  and  presently  she  took  up  the  dropped  thread  again. 

"How  will  she  manage  about  a  wedding-gown  at  such 
short  notice  ? ' ' 

"There  isn't  to  be  any  wedding-gown.  Phoebe  prefers 
not  to  have  one,  and  I  prefer  it,  too." 

"Oh  !  .  .  ."  breathed  Sally.  "That  seem  a  pity,  doesn't 
it?"  she  added,  softening  the  veiled  sneer  of  this  "Oh," 
which  she  had  not  been  able  to  repress. 

"No.  I  don't  think  so.  I've  always  loathed  weddings 
and  everything  connected  with  them.  A  bull-fight  isn't  so 
barbarous  a  spectacle  as  a  'smart'  wedding — in  my  eyes 
at  least." 

"Yes.  ...  It  does  seem  strange  .  .  .  for  you.  .  .  ." 
Sally  let  her  words  trail  off,  and  sat  gazing  thoughtfully  to 
where  the  Green-Flower  made  a  shining  loop  at  the  foot  of 
the  rose-garden.  The  evening  star  hung  like  a  great  daffo 
dil  of  fire  just  above  the  languid  blue  of  the  far  hills. 

Owen  winced  as  she  had  meant  him  to. 

"Of  course  the  difference  in  our  ages  will  make  it  seem 
a  sad  mistake  to  many  people,"  he  said.  "My  only  excuse 
is  that  the  child  is  fond  of  me,  and  I  believe  that  I  can 
make  her  happy  .  .  .  despite  my  extreme  age,"  he  added, 
with  a  rather  ironical  smile. 

Sally  did  not  like  this  smile.  Men  are  not  ironical  over 
their  own  actions  unless  they  are  very  sure  of  them.  She 
sought  in  her  mental  armory  for  a  subtler  weapon. 

"I  wonder  what  dear  Mary  will  say?"  she  then  mused 
aloud.  ' '  How  often  she  has  told  me  what  a  pity  it  was  that 


W  O  II L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  149 

you  had  never  married.  She  said  that  she  was  afraid  you 
never  would  now.  And  then  to  find  that  you've  fallen  in 
love  with  a  slip  of  a  girl  ...  I  do  think  Mary  will  be  as 
tonished,  don't  you?" 

"Very  likely,"  said  Owen  drily.  The  shaft  had  gone 
home  as  neatly  as  she  could  have  wished. 

Then  Sally,  in  her  hungry  desire  to  wound,  made  a  seri 
ous  blunder. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  leaning  her  head 
on  one  thin  hand  with  its  heavy  stones  of  green  and  red 
and  black-blue,  and  playing  with  the  spray  of  citronalis 
from  her  finger-bowl — "do  you  know  I  once  thought  that 
she  and  Richard  might  have  a  love  affair?" 

Owen  had-  always  felt  that  a  certain  fibre  of  coarseness 
in  Sally  struck  through  in  moments  of  temper,  but  this 
passed  all  bounds.  That  she  should  link  those  names  to 
gether  before  him  seemed  the  greatest  breach  of  all  decency 
of  .soul  that  he  had  ever  known.  He  was  afraid  to  look  at 
her  for  fear  that  some  of  his  cold  disgust  should  find  its 
way  into  his  eyes.  He  sat  silent,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the 
great  star  which  hung  over  Phoebe's  home,  and  thought 
with  exultation  of  how  he  had  rescued  her  from  the  power 
of  this  woman,  who  by  her  last  speech  had  set  herself  at 
such  an  immeasurable  distance  from  him,  and  whose  cruel 
laugh  when  he  had  told  her  of  his  coming  marriage  still 
echoed  painfully  in  his  ears. 

Sally  had  frayed  with  her  own  hands  one  of  the  slender 
bonds  that  hold  together  the  uncongenial  members  of  a 
family — the  old,  deep-rooted  sense  of  affection  as  obliga 
tory  between  children  of  the  same  parents.  With  a  man 
like  Owen  the  other  bond,  duty,  would  hold,  though  it 
chafed  to  the  bone,  but  affection  is  no  more  to  be  com 
manded  than  passionate  love,  and  in  that  moment,  together 
with  his  disgust,  came  a  sharp  feeling  of  dislike. 

He  glanced  at  the  great  gems  burning  on  his  sister's  sal 
low  fingers,  and  remembered  how  sweet  and  girlish  had 
looked  the  simple  ring  of  enamel  on  Phoebe's  timid,  flower- 
white  hand,  and  he  thought  how  he  would  ask  her  never  for 
his  sake  to  deck  herself  with  the  vulgar  beauty  of  great 
jewels.  And,  again,  as  he  noticed  something  ruthless  and 
talon-like  in  those  sallow  fingers,  he  wished  that  he  and 
Phoebe  were  already  standing  together  on  the  deck  of  the 
liner,  with  America  a  brown  haze  on  the  horizon. 

Sally  herself  was  frightened  when  she  had  spoken.    "If 


150  WORLD'S-END 

he  should  ever  find  out  by  any  chance,  he  would  never  for 
give  me  that  speech,"  she  told  herself.  And  she  remem 
bered  what  the  scriptures  say  about  being  ware  of  the 
wrath  of  a  patient  man,  for  Sally  was  a  conscientious  and 
methodical  reader  of  the  Bible. 

As  soon  as  coffee  had  been  served  Owen  excused  him 
self  and  withdrew  to  his  study,  saying  that  he  had  a  press 
of  matters  which  must  be  attended  to  at  once  in  view  of 
his  approaching  departure  from  America.  He  had  never 
bid  her  good-night  so  coldly,  or  excused  himself  to  her  so 
formally,  and  Sally  suffered  under  this,  for  beneath  the 
lava  waves  of  impotent  rage  and  jealousy  for  her  young 
burned  the  ofttimes  choked  but  never  wholly  extinguished 
slow  fire  of  real  affection  for  her  brother.  She  had  suc 
ceeded  in  wounding  him,  if  not  to  the  full  measure  of  her 
passing  impulse,  still  sufficiently  to  have  chilled  his  feeling 
for  her,  and  she  shivered  over  the  too  speedy  result  of  her 
blind  strokes  with  the  two-edged  blade  of  revenge. 

A  dreadful  night  she  spent,  tossed  from  impotent  wrath 
to  jealousy — from  impotent  jealousy  back  to  helpless 
wrath.  The  barren  pangs  of  unavailing  anger  racked  her 
almost  insufferably  .  .  .  anger  against  Phoebe,  against 
Owen,  against  Richard,  against  fate  (she  called  it  "fate," 
but  it  was  anger  against  a  powerful  but  inactive  God  that 
Sally  felt),  against  herself.  She  tossed  and  tossed  until  the 
blind,  blank  eyes  of  her  white-curtained  windows  slowly 
opened  in  the  dark  wall. 

Then  she  got  up,  and,  all  haggard  and  weary  as  she  was, 
dropped  on  her  knees  by  one  of  the  open  windows,  and 
flung  up  desperate  prayers  at  the  cool,  indifferent  sky  of 
early  dawn.  "Oh,  my  God!  my  God!  thou  art  my  God!" 
cried  her  heart  like  frantic  David.  "Set  it  right.  Stop 
this  dreadful  thing.  Forgive  Richard.  Send  him  back. 
Let  her  marry  him.  Let  anything  happen  but  that  my 
brother  should  marry  her.  Oh,  my  God !  thou  art  my  God ! 
Listen  to  me!"  To  this  effect  prayed  desperate,  angry- 
hearted  Sally  to  the  calm  dawn.  And  in  her  soul  was  the 
cry  of  the  indignant  prophet  of  old :  "  Wilt  Thou  always 
be  unto  me  as  waters  that  fail  ? ' ' 


WORLD'S -END  151 


XXIII 

ART'S  coming  was  a  relief  to  the  brother  and  sister, 
fixed  there  as  they  were  in  the  great,  lonely  house 
with  the  shadow  of  misunderstanding  and  wounded  feel 
ing  between  them.  Something  sweet  and  briary  fresh  as 
of  wholesome  airs  blowing  over  an  old-time  garden  filled 
with  rue,  and  rosemary,  and  thyme,  was  brought  with 
Mary's  atmosphere.  The  little  dance  in  her  grey  eyes  was 
as  refreshing  as  the  dance  on  running  water  when  one 
goes  for  a  dip  after  a  sultry  day. 

Sally  kissed  her  with  a  sense  of  gratitude  for  her  pres 
ence  that  was  almost  humble  for  Sally. 

Owen  took  both  her  hands  and  held  them  so  tight  that 
her  rings  bit,  but  she  did  not  wince. 

"Mary,"  said  Sally,  and  she  told  the  truth,  "I  was  never 
so  glad  to  see  anyone  in  my  life ! ' ' 

''Mary, "  said  Owen,  "I  didn't  think  I  could  get  fonder 
of  you,  but  at  this  moment  I  realise  that  my  affection  has 
grown  since  you  stepped  from  the  carriage. ' ' 

"You  dear  tilings,"  said  Mary,  "I've  missed  you  both 
dreadfully.  You  make  me  feel  just  as  though  I  were  com 
ing  to  my  very  own  home." 

"It  is  your  very  own  home, "  said  Sally  and  Owen  in 
the  same  breath.  Then  all  three  laughed. 

' '  I  never  heard  you  and  Sally  so  unanimous, ' '  said  Mary. 
"Have  you  been  quarrelling  that  you're  so  desperately 
glad  to  see  me?" 

And,  though  she  did  not  show  it,  something  in  the  air 
of  both  told  her  that  she  had  unwittingly  struck  a  very 
large  nail  directly  upon  the  head. 

"Iced  tea  for  Mary  in  the  West  Portico!"  she  smiled, 
speaking  in  a  little  girl's  voice  and  tucking  Sally's  hand 
beneath  her  arm.  "Mary  so  thirsty!" 

And  she  rattled  on,  telling  them  of  absurdities  that  had 
happened  during  her  journey  and  entering  into  lively  one 
sided  dialogues  with  the  dogs  who  came  panting  and  wag 
ging  about  her,  until  the  little  gene,  caused  by  her  uncon 
scious  stroke  of  shrewdness,  had  entirely  gone. 

She  thought  that  Sally  looked  very  worn  in  the  bright 
western  light,  and  there  was  a  tension  also  about  Owen's 
face  that  made  her  sure  that  grave  questions  were  stirring 
at  Worlcl's-End. 


152  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

After  tea,  Sally  lay  down  in  a  Madeira  chair  on  the  lawn, 
and  Owen  took  Mary  for  a  stroll  by  the  Green-Flower. 

"Or,"  he  said,  as  they  reached  the  creeper-laced 
bank  near  the  boat-house,  "shall  I  punt  you  up  to  the 
weir?" 

"Please,"  said  Mary. 

She  lay  back  on  the  red  cushions,  watching  his  tall  fig 
ure  at  the  pole,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  happiness 
was  very  great  in  just  loving  him  as  she  did.  She  looked 
at  the  greenish  sheen  of  the  little  river,  in  which  the  first 
faint  salmon-coloured  streaks  of  sunset  were  reflected,  at 
the  heavy  heads  of  mid-summer  roses  nodding  down  to 
her  from  the  garden  hedge  above,  at  the  wrhite  columns  of 
the  West  Portico  rising  from  its  cloud  of  shrubbery,  at  the 
sweet,  vague  peace  of  the  drowsy  sky, — and  in  her  heart 
was  repeated  that  sweet,  vague  peacefulness.  She  recalled 
a  saying  that  she  treasured.  "He  who  loses  his  love  keeps 
her  always."  Perhaps,  if  Owen  had  loved  her  in  return, 
perhaps  .  .  .  this  lovely  hour  would  have  missed  some  of 
its  delicate  keenness.  Consuming  fires  leave  ashes,  though 
they  may  be  white  as  snow.  .  .  . 

Owen 's  voice  roused  her,  saying : 

"Mary,  dear, — I've  something  rather  startling  to  tell 
you.  Be  good  to  me.  I  shrink  from  telling  you,  Mary — 
but  at  least  you  won't  misunderstand.  You  never  do  that. 
Only  .  .  ." 

"Suppose  we  drift  while  you  tell  me,"  she  said,  smiling 
at  him,  and  to  herself  she  said,  "Richard."  She  could  not 
account  for  a  certain  doubtful,  troubled  look  in  his  eyes, 
save  by  that  one  word.  So  often  she  had  seen  that  look  in 
his  eyes  when  he  puzzled  over  the  problem  of  Richard. 

He  came  and  sat  near  her,  and  the  anxiety  in  his  dark, 
eager  face  made  her  long  to  comfort  him. 

"Is  it  Richard?"  she  asked. 

He  flushed  deeply,  but  said,  "It's  myself,  Mary."  If 
Mary  looked  at  him,  when  he  told  her,  as  though  she 
thought  him  about  to  yield  to  a  mere  sensual  passion  for 
a  pretty  morsel  of  young  girlhood,  he  felt  that  it  would  be 
hard  to  bear.  He  knew  every  expression  of  those  light-grey 
eyes  sc  well.  Would  they  look  coldly  amused  ?  .  .  .  Would 
they  look  gallantly  friendly  through  a  cloud  of  disappoint 
ment  in  her  friend?  .  .  .  How,  how  would  those  kind,  fa 
miliar  eyes  look  at  him  when  he  had  told  her? 

"Mary,"  he  said,  gazing  at  her  anxiously,  almost  be- 


WORLD'S-EXD  153 

seechingly.  "I  ...  I  am  going  to  be  married,  and  to 
someone  you  know.  ..." 

lie  broke  off  as  if  waiting  for  her  to  help  him.  It  seemed 
to  Mary  that  life  stopped  short,  while  she,  the  tossed  rider, 
went  spinning  on  into  vacancy.  Somewhere  out  of  a  great 
void  she  heard  her  voice  saying: 

"To  someone  I  know?" 

She  felt  that  her  eyes  looked  blind.  Putting  up  her 
handkerchief  to  them,  she  said  again:  "Forgive  me,  Owen, 
...  it  isn't  Lick  of  sympathy  .  .  .  it's  a  gnat  ...  in  my 
eye.  ...  It  stings  like  fire." 

"Poor  Mary!  Then  that  blank  stare  wasn't  all  for  me? 
.  .  .  Can  I  help  get  him  out?" 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Mary,  her  handkerchief  still  to  her 
eye.  "I  think  lie's  drowned  by  now." 

She  thought  it  very  strange  that  she  could  sit  there,  talk 
ing  in  such  a  calm  voice,  while  her  breast  felt  squeezed  to 
gether  by  that  shrewd  pain.  A  woman  of  times  past,  mar 
ried  by  proxy  to  the  lover  she  must  forego,  and  glad  to  be 
near  him  even  with  the  naked  sword  between,  might  have 
felt  as  Mary  did,  had  he  risen  and  plunged  that  sword  into 
her  heart. 

"Some  one  I  know?"  she  repeated.  "You  must  tell  me. 
I  can't  think  of  anyone." 

He  blushed  hotly  again,  looking  away  from  her.  "It's 
your  own  little  kinswoman  .  .  .  Phoebe, "  he  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Plwclc.  .  .  .  Phoebe  Nelson?     That  ..." 

Mary  had  been  going  to  say  "that  child,"  but  she  broke 
off,  a  new  pain  mixing  with  the  old. 

Owen  looked  at  her  this  time  with  saddened  eyes.  "I 
know  what  you  were  going  to  say,  Mary.  .  .  .  But  think  a 
little  before  you  judge  me.  We've  known  each  other  a 
long  time.  Do  you  think  it  likely  that  I?  .  .  ."  He,  too, 
broke  off,  and  his  look  left  hers  again. 

Mary's  heart  gave  a  sudden  throb. 

"There's  something  under  this,"  she  thought.  "Some 
thing  that  he's  not  going  to  tell  me.  What  is  it?  What 
can  it  be  ?  Does  Sally  know  ?  .  .  .  Poor  Sally !  .  .  .  what 
a  tempest  must  be  raging  in  her." 

And  Owen  was  thinking: 

"Yes  ...  in  spite  of  all,  it's  natural  she  should  see  it  in 
this  light.  A  man  of  forty-seven  marrying  a  girl  of 
twenty.  ...  It  looks  but  one  way  .  .  .  even  to  the  most 


154  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D 

indulgent  friend.  And  then,  too,  Mary  has  heard  me  speak 
so  often  against  such  marriages.  .  .  .  But  it  hurts  more 
than  I  had  dreaded  it  would." 

"How  queer  life  is  .  .  ."  Mary  was  saying  thought 
fully.  ' '  Do  you  remember  the  day  we  took  tea  at  Sherry 's, 
and  I  talked  to  you  of  Phoebe  ?  .  .  . " 

She  stopped.  The  mocking  irony  of  fate  had  never  so 
come  home  to  her.  She  had  sent  him  to  Nelson 's  Gift  her 
self.  ...  It  was  she  who  had  brought  them  together. 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Owen  slowly;  "I  saw  Phoebe 
for  the  first  time  when  I  rode  over  with  your  parcel."  He 
turned  full  to  her. 

"Mary  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  Owen?" 

"Phoebe  has  been  very  ill.  I'm  going  to  take  her  away 
as  soon  as  possible." 

A  new  pang  for  Mary.  The  marriage  was  to  take  place 
quickly  then. 

' '  I  love  her  dearly,  Mary. ' ' 

"I  know  that.  Did  you  fancy  I  could  think  you  would 
marry  anyone  that  you  didn't  love?" 

"No.  .  .  .  But  .  .  .  we've  talked  of  such  things  so 
often.  It's  such  a  volte-face.  ..." 

"Theories  are  just  flimsy  rags  in  life's  hands,  dear 
Owen." 

Her  eyes  shone  very  kindly  on  him  now,  and  he  felt  a 
drawing  in  his  throat  that  had  he  been  a  woman  would  have 
meant  tears. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  the  fringed  end  of  a 
ribbon  that  had  blown  across  his  wrist  in  the  light 
breeze,  "I  think  that  she'll  be  happy  with  me  in  spite  of 
...  of  the  difference.  ..." 

"And  you,  Owen  .  .  .  what  about  your  happiness?" 
said  Mary,  speaking  sharply  for  the  first  time. 

He  started,  glancing  quickly  at  her.  Then  he  knew  that 
he  must  pull  himself  together,  if  he  did  not  wish  her  astute 
instinct  to  get  on  too  close  a  trail.  His  smile  came  very 
naturally. 

"When  you  see  her — even  now  after  her  illness — I  don't 
think  you'll  worry  about  my  happiness,  Mary  dear." 

"Is* she  so  lovely?" 

"Winning  and  lovable  in  every  way.  But  you'll 
see  for  yourself.  I've  promised  to  take  you  there  tomor 
row.  ' ' 


WORLD'S -END  155 

Mary  winced.  A  little  human  sting  of  unreasoning 
anger  shot  through  her  pain. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I'd  rather  have  one  quiet  day  at 
"World 's-End  first,"  she  said. 

His  dashed  expression  hurt  her  so  that  she  cried  repent 
antly  the  next  instant : 

"I'm  a  selfish  pig!  Of  course  I'll  go.  ...  I  really 
want  to  see  little  Phoebe,  and  especially  now." 

His  face  brightened  like  a  boy's. 

''You  couldn't  be  selfish  if  you  tried,"  he  said,  and 
reaching  over  gave  her  hand  a  warm  squeeze.  "She  hasn't 
any  mother,  as  you  know,  and  she's  a  little  in  awe  of  Sally. 
A  girl  needs  some  woman  to  be  good  to  her  at  such  a 
time. ' ' 

Again  Mary  winced.  Really,  she  was  not  quite  old 
enough  to  be  Phoebe's  mother. 

The  punt  had  drifted  to  the  bank  under  a  great  willow, 
and  the  long,  tremulous  tresses  of  foliage  swayed  sadly 
against  the  clear  mauve  sky  with  its  hem  of  gold  brushing 
the  dark  hills.  All  the  salmon-rose  had  faded  out.  The 
sunset  was  like  a  pale  autumn  flower. 

' '  Does  Sally  take  it  very  hard  ? ' ' 

"Rather." 

His  face  grew  cold. 

"You'll  have  to  be  lenient  to  her,  dear  Owen.  From 
many  points  of  view  it's  a  great  blow  to  her." 

"You're  thinking  of  .  .  .  Richard?" 

She  noticed  the  slight  hesitation  before  Richard's  name, 
and  the  hardness  in  his  voice,  which  was  even  colder  than 
his  expression. 

"I'm  thinking  of  Sally's  feeling  about  Richard.  This 
will  change  everything  for  him,  you  know." 

"Yes  .  .  ."he  said. 

Mary  found  the  grimness  of  his  tone  strange.  More 
than  ever  she  felt  sure  that  Richard  was  in  some  way  in 
volved. 

"Where  is  Richard,  now  that  I  think  of  it?"  she 
asked. 

' '  He  and  Stokes  have  gone  to  the  East. ' ' 

"Herbert     Stokes!  .  .  .     Richard    went    with    Herbert 

Ofn1-nc'  9  " 

oiO-i-vCS  s 

"Yes.  ...     It's  rather  droll,  isn't  it?" 
"It's  more  than  'droll,'  "  said  Mary,  smiling.     "It's 
mysterious. ' ' 


156  WORLD'S-END 

Owen  got  up  and  poled  the  punt  out  into  mid-stream 
again. 

"Sally  will  get  jealous  if  I  keep  you  too  long,"  he  said. 

As  they  came  near  the  garden  again  they  saw  Sally's 
white  figure  on  the  bank.  She  waved  to  them,  and  Owen 
turned  the  punt  and  poled  towards  her. 

As  she  stood  watching  them  she  noted  the  grace  of 
Mary's  light  figure  against  the  red  cushions,  and  suddenly 
she  thought:  "There  was  the  wife  for  him!  ...  If  he 
had  to  marry  at  his  age,  why  didn't  he  choose  Mary?" 
.  .  .  And  she  reflected  with  a  sick  regret  how  Mary  would 
probably  have  had  no  children.  And  of  how,  in  that  case, 
Richard  would  have  still  been  the  heir. 

"What  a  fool  Owen  has  been  in  every  way,"  ran  her 
bitter  thought.  "Now  his  first-born  will  be  another  man's. 
And  as  for  any  others  that  may  come  ..."  A  disfiguring 
smile  twitched  her  lips.  It  was  still  on  them  when  the 
punt  came  near,  but  dusk  had  fallen  and  it  was  not  visible. 
She  got  in  beside  Mary,  wondering  if  Owen  had  yet  told 
her  of  his  coming  marriage,  but  she  did  not  dare  open  the 
subject  before  him.  They  glided  to  and  fro  an  hour  longer, 
and  she  and  Mary  talked  of  surface  things,  while  Owen, 
steadily  poling,  kept  silence  for  the  most  part. 

That  night,  when  Mary  found  herself  alone  in  her  room, 
she  blew  out  the  candle,  and,  going  over  to  the  window, 
knelt  down  beside  it,  quietly  leaning  her  face  on  her 
clasped  hands  and  gazing  up  at  the  tranquil  stars.  And 
as  she  knelt  there  she  thought  of  Emerson 's  fancy  in  which 
he  imagined  Nature  looking  down  on  perturbed  mortals 
and  saying:  "So  hot  my  little  sirs?"  Then  she  drew  from 
the  bosom  of  her  dress  a  silver  cross,  which  was  fastened 
to  the  slender  Venetian  chain  she  habitually  wore,  and 
looked  at  it  with  a  half  smile.  It  was  a  little  cross  of  the 
twelfth  century  that  Owen  had  brought  her  once  from 
Poland.  How  appropriate  that  Owen  should  have  given 
her  a  cross!  .  .  .  She  bit  her  lip  suddenly,  for  the  smile 
had  almost  changed  into  a  sob.  .  .  .  Then  she  kissed 
the  trinket,  and,  slipping  it  back  into  her  bosom,  bent  down 
her  forehead  on  her  two  hands  and  whispered  softly,  "Dear 
Lord,  keep  my  love  strong.  Keep  it  unselfish.  Keep  it 
good.  Keep  it  real." 

She  got  up  from  her  knees  and  began  slowly  to  undress. 
Just  as  she  was  about  to  lie  down  a  knock  came  at  her 
door. 


WORLD'S-END  157 

"It's  Sally.  .  .  .    May  I  come  in?" 

Mary  bit  her  lip  again, — a  trick  that  she  only  had  when 
alone. — then  went  and  opened  the  door  for  Sally. 

"Oh  !  .  .  .  you're  all  in  the  dark.  I'm  afraid  you  were 
going  to  sleep." 

"No  ...  I  had  just  finished  brushing  my  hair." 

"Then  may  I  stay  just  five  minutes?" 

"Yes,  do  stay.    AVait  till  I  find  the  matches." 

She  found  them,  and  lighted  her  bedroom  candle  again. 

The  yellow  light  revealed  Sally  in  the  pale-blue  dress 
ing  gown  that  so  accentuated  her  thinness  and  swarthi- 
ness.  She  stood  looking  at  Mary  with  a  sort  of  angry  hun 
ger  in  her  black  eyes. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  selfish,"  she  said,  "but  I  do  so  long 
for  a  good  talk  with  you. 

"I'm  not  sleepy  .  .  .  truly.  Shall  we  keep  the  candle 
lighted  or  blow  it  out?" 

"Blow  it  out,  do,"  said  Sally.  "I  like  to  talk  in  the 
starlight." 

They  settled  themselves  near  the  window,  and  then  Mary 
put  its  little  silver  hat  on  the  candle,  and  the  room  was 
filled  with  quiet  dusk  again. 

"I  suppose  he's  told  you,"  came  Sally's  voice  out  of  the 
darkness  like  a  bitter  gust. 

"Yes,"  said  Mary. 

"Did  you  ever  think  that  Owen  could  be  such  a  pitiable 
fool?" 

"Calling  Owen  names  won't  make  things  different, 
Sally." 

Sally  grew  excited. 

"Oh,  Mary!  For  God's  sake  don't  be  a  prig!  ...  A 
man  of  nearly  fifty  who  marries  a  girl  of  twenty  is  a  fool, 
...  if  he  were  Solomon  himself  he'd  be  a  fool." 

Mary  said  calmly : 

"lie's  not  a  fool  if  he  loves  her." 

"Loves  her!  Mary!  ...  Do  you  call  it  love  .  .  .  the 
feeling  of  a  man  his  age  for  a  bit  of  dimpled  flesh  ? ' ' 

"Don't,  Sally,"  said  Mary  coldly. 

But  Sally  went  furiously  on : 

"There's  no  use  being  superior,  Mary.  You  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  no  Dante  and  Beatrice  love  ever  drew 
a  middle-aged  man  to  a  pretty  chit.  It's  horrible  of  Owen 
to  give  way  to  sheer  animal  desire  like  this!" 

Mary  was  so  sorry  for  the  poor  tigress  gnashing  im- 


158  WORLD'S -END 

potently  the  fangs  that  could  not  avail  for  her  whelp  that 
she  put  aside  her  indignation  and  answered  very  gently. 

"Listen,  Sally.  I  don't  mean  to  be  a  prig,  but  I  do 
think  you  harm  yourself  when  you  give  way  to  such  feel 
ings  about  Owen,  and  put  them  into  such  rough,  bitter 
words.  How  can  you  nurse  such  feelings  against  such  a 
brother?  And  I  don't  believe  in  your  heart  you  think 
it  true.  You  can't  think  a  man  like  Owen  is  marrying 
for  such  reasons.  ...  I  believe  there's  something  under 
it  all.  Do  you  know  what  it  is?" 

Silence  fell  between  them  in  the  darkness  like  a  soft, 
ominous  body.  Then  Sally  said  in  a  constrained  voice: 
"What  could  there  be  under  it  but  what  you  won't  ad 
mit?  You've  always  been  fanciful  about  Owen."  She 
paused  again,  then  added  with  the  malice  that  so  seethed 
in  her  since  yesterday  against  everyone,  against  every 
thing, — "A  stranger  might  think  you  were  in  love  with 
him  yourself,  from  the  way  you  always  resent  the  mere 
idea  of  his  having  a  fault.  He's  a  fine  man,  of  course, 
but  he's  been  far  from  a  Galahad,  I  can  tell  you." 

"Oh,  Sally,"  said  Mary,  and  Sally  heard  her  get  to 
her  feet  in  the  darkness,  "sometimes  I  think  that  the  mo 
ment  will  come  when  I  have  to  choose  between  my  self- 
respect  and  my  friendship  for  you." 

This  scared  Sally  badly.  Mary  was  the  one  woman  in 
the  world  whom  she  really  loved  and  depended  on. 

She  caught  at  the  glimmer  of  her  white  gown  through 
the  dusk. 

"No,  no!  ...  Don't  say  that!  .  .  .  Why  should  you 
be  angry?  I'm  sure  I  only  wish  to  God  that  you  and  he 
did  love  each  other!  .  .  .  Oh,  Mary,  don't  turn  on  me  in 
my  wretchedness.  Think,  think  what  it  all  means  to  me, 
and  forgive  me!  ...  My  son  ruined  .  .  .  my  home  gone. 
.  .  .  Oh,  Mary!" 

And  she  began  to  sob  dryly. 

Mary  sat  down  again.  She  was  always  easily  mollified 
by  any  evidence  of  real  affection,  and  the  sincerity  in 
Sally's  appeal  was  beyond  doubt.  Besides,  that  cry  about 
wishing  that  she  and  Owen  had  loved  each  other  went 
very  straight  to  her  sore  heart.  She  put  her  hand  on 
the  bent  head. 

"Poor  Sally!"  she  said.  "You  do  eat  your  heart  so. 
Let's  talk  about  Richard.  Why  did  he  go  away  and  leave 
you  like  this?" 


WORLD'S -END  159 

Sally  choked  her  sobs  at  once,  and  went  off  into  a  long, 
wandering  narrative  about  Richard  and  the  Chinese  opera. 
That  was  why  he  had  gone  to  China,  she  said.  He  felt 
that  it  was  absolutely  necessary  for  his  work.  And  she 
talked  on  for  some  moments  in  this  strain,  a  strong  in 
stinct  urging  her  to  dispel  from  Mary's  mind  all  possible 
ideas  of  there  being  anything  strange  about  Richard's 
sudden  departure  for  the  East. 

"But,"  said  Mary,  "has  he  given  up  his  painting  en 
tirely  for  the  present?  .  .  .  Didn't  he  paint  at  all  while 
he  was  here?" 

Sally,  in  her  hurried  mind,  pulled  out  rapidly  one 
thought  after  another,  like  a  novice  trying  which  stop  of 
an  organ  will  produce  the  right  tone.  If  she  said  "no — 
not  much,"  Mary  would  be  sure  to  hear  about  his  portrait 
of  Phoebe.  If  she  spoke  of  that  Mary  would  ask  about 
it.  If  she  said  nothing  that  would  seem  queer  later  on. 
If  she  began  to  speak  of  Phoebe  she  was  afraid  of  of 
fending  Mary  again,  and  then,  too,  it  would  come  out  how 
often  Richard  had  been  at  Nelson's  Gift.  Yet  Mary  would 
be  sure  to  know  that  some  time.  Not  a  stop  but  would 
produce  the  wrong  tone!  .  .  .  She  fumbled  with  them  so 
]ong  in  silence  that  Mary  said, 

"Didn't  you  hear  me,  dear?" 

And  then  Sally  in  desperation  pulled  out  the  "vox  hu- 
niana"  to  its  full  power. 

"Oh,  Mary!  ...  I'm  a  wretched  creature!  .  .  .  Rich 
ard's  art  is  more  to  him  than  I  am.  .  .  .  And  now  Owen 
is  going  to  be  taken  from  me ! ' ' 

This  touched  Mary  deeply.  There  was  so  much  of  sad 
truth  in  that  anguished  wail.  Marriage  assuredly  divides, 
to  a  certain  extent,  the  fondest  brother  and  sister,  while 
she  knew  well  that  next  to  himself  his  art  was  first  with 
Richard. 

"Mothers  of  geniuses  can't  expect  everything,  my  poor 
dear,"  she  said  tenderly,  though  she  didn't  at  all  think 
Richard  a  genius.  There  was  really  nothing  of  the  prig  in 
Mary.  "But  little  Phoebe  must  be  a  sweet  child  from  all 
I  hear.  And  Owen  says  you've  been  very  kind  to  her. 
Why  shouldn't  her  affection  prove  a  new  comfort  to  you? 
You  can't  think  that  Owen  would  ever  want  you  to  leave 
World 's-End." 

Sally  sat  up  straight  and  stiff  as  a  steel  rod  under 
Mary 's  soothing  hand. 


160  WORLD'S-END 

"I  can't  talk  of  Phoebe  Nelson  to  you,  Mary.  She's 
your  first  cousin.  I  consider  that  she's  treated  me  with 
cruel  ingratitude. ' ' 

"With  ingratitude?  .  .  .  Youf  But  how's  that  possi 
ble?" 

"If  she  has  any  intelligence  whatever, — and  she  has 
plenty,  believe  me, — she  must  have  known  how  she  was 
wrecking  my  whole  life  and  my  son's,  too,  by  accepting 
Owen." 

Mary  could  not  help  smiling  to  herself  in  the  darkness. 
This  speech  struck  her  as  so  peculiarly  "  Sallyesque. " 
"My  dear  Sally,"  she  protested,  "how  could  you  expect 
a  young  girl  smitten  with  first  love  to  think  of  its  con 
sequences  to  anyone?" 

"First  love!"  came  the  bitter  voice  out  of  the  darkness, 
and,  before  she  could  restrain  it,  a  laugh  broke  from  Sally. 

Something  in  this  laugh  shocked  Mary. 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  said,  very  gravely,  "to  insinuate 
that  Phoebe?  .  .  .  ' 

Sally's  words  of  denial  came  stumbling.  She  was  badly 
frightened  again. 

"I  don't  mean  anything  but  that  the  idea  of  'first 
love'  has  always  struck  me  as  ridiculous.  Why, — a  girl 
like  that  must  have  been  in  love  with  someone  ever  since 
she  could  lisp!  ...  It's  so.  .  .  .  ' 

"Why  do  you  say  'a  girl  like  that'?"  said  Mary  sharply. 

"Oh,  Mary!  Don't  catch  me  up  so.  ...  I  only  meant 
any  girl  just  out  of  her  teens.  You  talk  exactly  as  if 
you  thought  I  meant  to  say  something  disparaging." 

"It  certainly  sounded  like  it,"  said  Mary,  who  had  a 
temper  of  her  own,  which  somehow  Sally  always  ended 
by  rousing. 

Sally  got  up  and  said  in  a  forlorn  voice: 

"I  think  I'd  better  go  to  bed.  ...  I'm  dead  tired  .  .  . 
and  I  only  keep  offending  you." 

Mary  rose  too. 

"I  really  think  that  sleep  will  help  you  more  than  I 
can,"  she  said,  "I'm  truly,  truly  sorry  for  you,  but  I 
do  think  you're  borrowing  trouble." 

"One  doesn't  borrow  what  one  has  too  much  of  al 
ready,"  said  Sally  dryly,  "but  one's  own  troubles  always 
seem  superfluous  to  others." 

Mary  put  her  hand  on  the  thin  shoulder.  Its  thin 
ness  seemed  suddenly  pathetic  to  her.  It  was  as  if  Sally 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  161 

inhabited  a  frame  out  of  which  all  softness  had  been  burnt 
by  her  fierce  passions. 

' '  Are  you  going  to  quarrel  with  me  as  well  as  with  poor 
Owen?"  she  said,  smiling.  "Don't  Sally.  .  .  .  Lonely 
anger  is  the  king  demon." 

"No,"  said  Sally  harshly,  "helpless  anger  is.  But  I 
don't  want  to  quarrel  with  you,  Mary.  I'm  very  trying  I 
know,  but  unhappy  people  are  always  trials." 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  dear,"  said  Mary,  melting  again. 
She  leaned  forward  and  kissed  her.  "Go  and  try  to  get 
some  sleep.  Tomorrow  may  be  different." 

"It  can  only  be  worse.  But  I  mustn't  say  anything 
more.  Good-night,  Mary." 

"Good-night,  Sally." 

Sally  took  up  the  candle  which  she  had  left  lighted 
outside  the  door,  and  went  swiftly  away  down  the  long 
corridor. 

Mary  stood  looking  after  her,  then  with  a  sigh  she  turned 
and  entered  her  room  again. 

From  her  window  she  could  see  the  windows  of  Owen's 
study  in  the  East  Wing.  There  was  a  lamp  burning  on  his 
desk,  and  as  she  looked  he  came  and  sat  down  by  it,  spread 
ing  out  some  papers  before  him. 

Mary's  heart  stirred  painfully.  He  was  making  prepa 
rations  for  his  marriage.  She  closed  the  shutters  of  her 
window  and  turned  away. 


XXIV 

OIIALL  you  ride  over  to  Nelson's  Gift  or  shall  I  drive 
^  you  ? ' '  asked  Owen  of  Mary  at  breakfast  the  next  morn 
ing. 

I  think  I'll  get  you  to  drive  me,  please,"  said  Mary, 
smiling.  "It's  a  very  womanly  occasion,  and  I  don't  feel 
as  though  I  could  be  as  motherly  as  you  seem  to  wish  in 
riding-boots. ' ' 

"I  should  think  that  now,  at  least,  you'd  wish  you  had 
a  motor  here,"  put  in  Sally.  "A  lover  in  the  twentieth 
century,  with  only  horses  at  his  command  and  five  or  six 
miles  to  travel  several  times  every  day,  does  seem  at  a  dis 
advantage." 

She  was  making  a  great  effort  to  be  natural  and  pleasant, 


162  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

but  she  could  not  wash  all  tartness  from  her  words  and 
manner,  try  as  she  might. 

"Oh,  I  should  hate  the  thought  of  a  motor  at  World 's- 
End,"  said  Mary  impulsively. 

"I  feel  about  motors,  here,  much  as  the  king  who  had 
all  the  machinery  in  his  kingdom  smashed,  for  fear  they'd 
grow  in  power  and  intelligence  until  they  came  to  rule 
over  men,"  said  Owen.  "Don't  you  remember  the  en 
gaging  picture  in  Erewhon,  of  the  engine  in  her  shed 
with  all  the  little  engines  gamboling  around  her  like 
foals?" 

To  his  infinite  delight,  although  he  still  felt  very  sore 
against  her,  Sally  replied  with  some  stiffness:  "I've  never 
been  to  Erewhon,  or  whatever  the  place  is." 

Mary,  who  cherished  Samuel  Butler  as  much  as  he  did, 
dared  not  glance  at  him.  The  dimple  near  her  chin  came 
and  went. 

"You  won't  come  with  us,  Sally?"  she  asked 

"Not  today.     My  head   is  tiresome." 

Mary  and  Owen  drove  off  half  an  hour  later  behind  a 
pair  of  fast  brown  cobs.  The  blue  sky,  softened  by  a 
skein  of  silvery  cloud,  seemed  like  a  tent  made  for  happi 
ness.  She  sat  there  beside  him,  her  eyes  following  the 
eight  busy  hoofs,  and  thought: 

"This  is  one  of  our  last  drives  together.  It  will  never 
be  like  this  again.  Life  is  freakish  and  very  cruel.  I 
am  not  happy,  but  if  he  could  he  happy  I  should  not  mind. 
For  a  little  while  he  will  think  he  is.  But  afterwards.  ..." 

And  she  saw  Owen  sadly  enough,  a  wrhite-haired  man  of 
seventy  when  his  wife  would  be  still  a  young  woman,  only 
a  year  or  two  older  than  she  herself  was  now. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  throwing  back  her  shoulders  under 
her  white  cambric  gown. 

"Tell  me  something  about  Phoebe,"  she  said.  "You've 
scarcely  spoken  of  her  at  all." 

Owen  let  the  whip  just  touch  "Jinko's"  quarters,  and 
the  fiery  little  horse  plunged  ahead  with  a  snort. 

"I  haven't  talked  about  her  on  purpose,"  he  said. 
' '  When  there  are  two  people  that  you  're  especially  anxious 
to  have  'friends,'  it's  the  greatest  mistake  to  talk  much 
about  them  to  each  other." 

"Well  .  .  .  perhaps  you're  right,"  said  Mary. 

Her  eyes  were  on  his  brown  hand, — he  had  not  put  on 
his  gloves  which  she  had  picked  up  from  the  seat  when 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  163 

she  got  in,  and  now  held  in  her  lap.  The  little  flat  alumi 
num  sleeve-links,  with  the  sapphire  sparks,  she  had  known 
ever  since  she  knew  him.  She  could  close  her  eyes  at 
any  time  and  see  those  strong  wrists  and  the  sheen  of 
the  stiff  white  linen  against  them,  held  by  those  links,  as 
plainly  as  she  saw  them  now.  As  is  often  the  way  with 
women,  Owen's  hands  seemed  more  vividly  dear  to  her 
than  even  his  face,  with  the  quick-moving  affectionate  ha 
zel  eyes  that  she  so  loved.  He  wore  no  ring  of  any  kind. 
Now  she  wondered  if  he  would  wear  a  wedding-ring. 
Somehow  this  thought  hurt  her  more  than  even  the  thought 
of  so  soon  seeing  the  woman  who  was  going  to  be  his 
wife. 

"How  silent  you  are  today,  Mary  dear!"  said  Owen, 
looking  down  at  her  with  a  smile.  "Are  you  pondering 
all  the  possible  sorrows  that  may  lurk  for  me  in  the  es 
tate  of  marriage?" 

This  was  so  near  the  truth  that  Mary  gave  a  little  guilty 
laugh. 

"I  can't  help  it,  Owen.    Marriage  is  such  a  venture." 

"Everything  worth  having  or  doing  is  a  venture,  isn't 
it?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Mary. 

Owen  laughed  in  his  turn. 

"I  must  say  you're  rather  dampening,  my  dear 
girl." 

"Oh,  am  I?  Oh,  I  should  hate  to  be  that!"  cried  Mary, 
and  the  colour  flew  into  her  face.  "Oh,  don't  say  that! 
Please.  .  .  .  ' 

"Why,  Mary  dear,  of  course  I  know  it's  just  your  af 
fection  for  me." 

Just   her    "affection"    for   him!  .  .  . 

Mary's  short  upper  lip  trembled  a  little. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  in  a  matter  of  fact  voice,  the  next 
moment,  "I  know  you  so  much  better  than  most  people 
do.  I  know  what  a  tragedy  marriage  would  mean  to  you 
if  it  turned  out  anything  less  than  perfect." 

She  saw  his  face  change,  though  she  was  looking  past 
him  at  the  horses'  ears. 

"I'm  afraid  marriage  is  never  'perfect,'  Mary." 

"Yours  ought  to  be,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  turned  and  put  his  hand  over  hers  with  one  of  those 
frank,  impulsive  caresses  that  always  pleased  and  hurt 
her,  which  most,  she  could  not  tell. 


164  WORLD'S-END 

"Mary  dear,"  he  said,  "do  you  know  I've  sometimes 
thought  if  you'd  ever  cared  for  me  ...  in  that  way,  we 
two  might  have  been  very  happy." 

Mary  felt  as  though  he  had  struck  her.  If  she  had 
ever  cared  ...  in  that  way !  Had  she,  then,  hidden  all 
feeling  too  successfully?  Was  the  devastation  of  her  life 
all  her  own  doing?  But  the  next  instant  a  sure  intuition 
came  to  her  aid.  No — there  was  no  use  blinding  herself. 
Not  once  in  all  their  long  affectionate  friendship  had  he 
felt  one  throb  of  stronger  emotion  for  her. 

"You  mustn't  jest  to  an  old  maid  about  such  a  wonder 
ful  lost  opportunity,"  she  said  lightly.  "It  isn't  worthy 
of  true  knighthood." 

"Well,  after  all,"  said  Owen  thoughtfully,  "a  friend 
ship  like  ours  is  one  of  the  best  things  in  life." 

"Indeed  it  is,"  she  said  heartily. 

As  the  trap  emerged  from  Ilollybrook  Wood,  Phoebe, 
watching  from  her  window  for  the  first  cloud  of  dust,  with 
all  the  nervous  eagerness  of  a  "Sister  Ann,"  saw  it  at 
once,  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  violently.  She  had 
spent  the  whole  morning  over  her  toilet.  She  must  look 
her  very  best  to  greet  ' '  Cousin  Mary, ' '  the  dearest  friend 
of  the  being  that  she  worshipped  with  all  the  passion  of 
a  guilty  gratitude.  For  Phoebe  did  not  blind  herself. 
She  told  herself  over  and  over  with  burning  pain  that 
she  wTas  a  wicked,  wicked  girl,  in  spite  of  that  cherished 
feeling  that  Owen  would  forgive  her  if  he  knew.  It  was 
very  clear  to  her  that  she  should  tell  him,  and  yet,  given 
her  youth  and  inexperience  and  the  anguish  of  fear  from 
which  she  had  just  barely  escaped,  .  .  .  she  had  no  more 
power  to  struggle  out  of  this  desperate  temptation  than  a 
poor  linnet  out  of  the  grip  of  the  bird-lime.  Then,  too,  her 
native  joy  in  life  and  a  certain  childishness  which  was  part 
of  her  being  made  her  now,  and  were  to  make  her  again 
and  again,  lose  her  heavy  sense  of  her  true  situation  with 
its  problem  and  its  guilt  in  the  glamour  of  these  days  so 
suddenly  and  bewilderingly  radiant. 

She  had  ransacked  her  mother's  little  trunk  in  the  at 
tic  for  something  especially  pretty  to  wear,  and  had  de 
cided  at  last  on  an  old  fichu  of  embroidered  Indian  muslin 
trimmed  with  point  applique.  This  soft  web-like  kerchief 
she  had  adjusted  over  a  straight  little  frock  of  corn-col 
oured  muslin  with  short,  ruffled  sleeves.  About  her  throat 
she  tied  a  band  of  black  velvet,  and  drew  another  through 


WORLD'S -END  165 

her  hair.  "When  all  was  done  she  looked  like  a  winning 
portrait  by  Komney,  and  the  little  peak  of  hair  on  her 
forehead,  over  black-blue  eyes,  made  her  likeness  to  his 
"divine  lady"  very  striking. 

Anxiety,  dread,  a  sort  of  shamed  exultation  which  she 
could  not  suppress,  had  set  a  lovely  carmine  under  her 
eyes,  still  so  over-bright  and  startled  in  their  quick  glances. 

When  Mary  saw  her  she  said  to  herself:  "No  wonder! 
She  is  one  of  the  most  bewitching  creatures  I  ever  looked 
at!" 

"Think  of  this  being  my  little  butter-ball  Phoebe!" 
she  said,  and  took  her  straightway  in  her  arms. 

Great  tears  sprang  to  Phoebe's  eyes.  She  tried  hard 
to  speak  but  could  not.  Owen  stood  looking  on,  with 
an  odd  human  pride  in  the  loveliness  that  he  saw  had 
gone  to  Mary's  heart.  And  all  at  once  he  thought: 
"Yes  ...  I  shall  suffer.  If  she  can't  ever  love  me  ...  I 
shall  suffer  badly."  He  turned  away,  saying  that  he 
would  go  and  talk  to  Mr.  Nelson  while  they  "made 
friends"  anew,  after  all  these  years. 

' '  Suppose  you  take  me  up  to  your  own  room  ? ' '  sug 
gested  Mary  as  he  left  them,  her  arm  still  about  Phoebe's 
waist ;  the  child  was  a  full  inch  taller  than  she  was.  How 
strange !  Somehow  she  had  always  gone  on  thinking  of 
her  as  a  little  girl  all  this  time.  "We  should  be  so  much 
more  comfy  and  to  ourselves  there.  You  know  I  adored 
your  mother,  Phoebe  dear.  You  seem  to  belong  to  me 
specially.  And  just  now,  at  this  wonderful  time  in  your 
life.  .  .  .  " 

Phoebe's  head  went  down  on  her  shoulder. 

"Oh,  Cousin  Mary,"  she  said  very  low,  "don't  be  too 
sweet  to  me.  .  .  .  And  .  .  .  and  don't  talk  of  mother  .  .  . 
I  can't  bear  it  ...  now.  .  .  .  ' 

Mary  leaned  her  cheek  down  against  the  girl's  and  held 
her  close  without  saying  anything.  There  was  that  same 
strange  mingling  of  joy  and  anguish  in  thus  holding  close 
to  her  heart  the  one  thing  in  the  world  dearest  now  to 
Owen.  Mary  would  have  spoiled  the  plot  of  a  melodrama 
entirely.  She  was  the  woman  scorned,  she  told  herself 
with  her  irrepressible  quick  sense  of  the  incongruous,  and, 
instead  of  acting  like  the  classic  fury,  here  she  was,  cher 
ishing  her  rival  as  though  she  had  really  been  the  mother 
whose  part  Owen  wished  her  to  play. 

"Shall  we  go  to  your  room,  dear?"  she  said  again,  at 


166  WORLD'S-END 

last.  ' '  I  want  to  see  Jimmy  Toots.  Owen  has  told  me  how 
he  watched  over  your  bed  all  the  time  you  were  ill." 

So  Phoebe  shyly  led  the  way  upstairs  and  Mary  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Jimmy  Toots  and  King  Reddy.  The 
cardinal  bird  flew  to  Phoebe  when  she  whistled  and  lighting 
on  her  head  tickled  her  with  his  sharp  little  claws.  It 
seemed  to  Mary  that  the  girl  looked  appropriately  crowned 
\vith  flame,  as  the  brilliant  scarlet  wings  fluttered  over 
her  hair. 

"No  wonder  ...  no  wonder  ..."  she  kept  repeating 
to  herself.  And  gazing  earnestly  at  Phoebe  she  tried  to 
see  through  that  mask  of  a  young  face,  so  much  harder 
to  penetrate  than  the  faces  of  the  middle-aged  and  old, 
on  wiiich  life  has  left  writing  more  or  less  decipherable. 
Had  she  depth  .  .  .  character  ...  or  only  this  keen, 
heady  charm  of  colouring  and  vitality,  and  the  native 
sweetness  of  temper  which  was  revealed  by  every  line  and 
expression?  .  .  . 

They  talked  all  sorts  of  intimate,  everyday  things,  sit 
ting  there  together  in  Phoebe's  little  room  with  its  old  white 
furniture  wreathed  in  roses  of  blue.  And  Mary  said  how 
many  times  she  had  longed  to  have  Phoebe  \vith  her,  only 
her  (Mary's)  Aunt  Lucy  had  been  such  an  invalid  that 
she  couldn't  have  anyone.  And  then,  too,  Phoebe  had 
been  with  her  grandmother  in  Roanoke  for  so  many  years. 
"For  how  long  was  it,  really,  dear?" 

"Ever  since  I  was  fourteen  until  last  year,"  said 
Phoebe.  "But  you  used  to  write  me  such  beautiful  let 
ters,  Cousin  Mary.  I  used  to  put  them  under  my  pillow. 
I  loved  them  even  better  than  your  stories — and  I  always 
loved  your  stories  best  of  all.  Look.  .  .  .  '  She  pointed 
shyly  to  the  little  shelves  on  either  side  of  the  fireplace. 
"I  have  them  all  there." 

And  Mary  saw  that  there  indeed  were  her  five  little 
blue-and-gold  fairy-tales  for  children.  "You  sweet  child!" 
she  said,  kissing  Phoebe's  hair.  "I  feel  I've  missed  some 
thing  very  lovely  in  not  having  shared  those  years  with 
you." 

"But  I  love  you  just  the  same,  dear  Cousin  Mary,"  said 
Phoebe,  nestling  up  to  her  with  a  glowing  look  of  grateful 
response  to  this  tenderness. 

"What  an  almost  terribly  ardent  nature  the  child  has!" 
thought  Mary.  And  for  the  first  time  she  thought  of 
Owen's  responsibility  towards  Phoebe  in  their  coming  mar- 


WORLD'S -END  167 

riage,  instead  of  Phoebe's  towards  him.  "Tell  me, 
Phoebe,"  she  said  suddenly.  ""What  did  you  think  of 
Richard?  .  .  .  Did  you  see  much  of  him?"  Phoebe 
changed  colour  so  violently  and  her  eyes  dilated  so  that 
Mary  thought.  .  .  .  "She  dislikes  him  and  is  afraid  of 
him."  "I  don't  believe  you  like  Master  Richard  any  more 
than  I  do,  Phoebe."  she  said,  smiling. 

The  girl  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said  in  a  low 
voice : 

"Why  don't  you   like  him,   Cousin   Mary?" 

Mary  looked  consideringly  at  her  for  a  moment,  and 
then  she  said : 

"I  believe  I'll  just  speak  out  to  you,  dear,  because  you 
will  probably  be  brought  into  close  relations  with  him, 
and  it's  just  as  well  that  he  shouldn't  bemuse  you  as  he 
does  most  women.  He's  a  clever  trickster,  is  Master  Rich 
ard,  and  that's  the  truth,  my  dear.  He's  very  clever  in 
deed,  but  he's  a  trickster,  and  never  so  happy  as  when 
he's  leading  some  unsuspecting  woman  by  her  pretty  nose 
to  worship  at  his  altar.  And  he's  the  most  finished  egoist 
I  ever  knew,  and  I'm  afraid  that  he's  very  false.  Perhaps 
I  oughtn't  to  prejudice  you  like  this,  but  I  can't  bear  to 
think  of  Richard's  winning  you  for  a  possible  disciple. 
You  see,  he  turns  up  his  very  handsome  and  silly  nose 
at  Owen.  .  .  .  ' 

"How  dare  he!"  cried  Phoebe,  starting  up.  Her  eyes 
looked  as  black  as  Sally's  in  her  white  face.  Mary  drew 
her  down  again,  much  amused.  ""Why,  what  a  little  fire- 
eater  ! ' '  she  said.  ' '  AVait  till  you  know  the  gifted  Rich 
ard  better.  He  probably  looks  down  in  his  thought  on 
the  Christ  as  a  sort  of  gifted  young  fanatic  with  bourgeois 
ideas  of  fellow  love.  Just  how  cruel  one  can  be  with  per 
fect  sang  froid,  in  the  pursuit  of  one's  own  desires,  is  his 
measure  for  strength  of  character,  I  fancy.  But,  as  I 
said,  he's  very  clever,  and  very,  very  good-looking  in  a 
sort  of  early-eighteenth-century-Don- Juanish  way.  Mercy ! 
what  a  composite  adjective !  .  .  .  So  you  are  just  as  well 
warned  beforehand,  my  dear, — though  you  think  your 
Cousin  Mary  rather  catty  for  doing  it." 

"How  dare  he  look  down  on  ...  on  ...  Cousin 
Owen!"  burst  forth  Phoebe  again. 

"If  you  ask  me,"  said  Mary,  laughing  outright  this 
time,  "I  think  it's  because  he's  really  a  donkey  in  spite  of 
his  cleverness.  He'd  be  sure  to  make  a  mess  of  any  serious 


168  WORLD'S-END 

issue  in  his  life,  and  his  opinions  of  people  aren't  worth 
—that!" 

And  she  snapped  her  slender  forefinger  and  thumb  as 
deftly  as  a  school-boy. 

"He  isn't  worthy,"  said  Phoebe,  her  breast  heaving, 
"he  isn't  worthy  to  scrub  the  ground  where  Cousin  Owen 
has  trodden!" 

"Phoebe,"  said  Mary,  the  little  dance  beginning  in  her 
eyes,  "are  you  going  to  continue  calling  Owen  'Cousin 
Owen'  after  you  are  Mrs.  Randolph?" 

"Oh,  Cousin  Mary!"  cried  Phoebe,  one  flame,  and  she 
slid  down  by  the  chair  on  which  Mary  was  seated  and 
hid  her  face  in  her  lap. 

Such  vehement  feeling  startled  while  it  amused  Mary. 
She  could  not  help  wondering,  as  she  stroked  the  bright 
head  against  her  knees,  if  Owen  would  not  find  such  ex 
cessive  and  ardent  sensitiveness  a  little  disconcerting  at 
times.  "Do  you  love  him  so  much,  little  Phoebe?"  she 
said,  very  gently. 

Phoebe  lifted  a  face  so  transfigured  that  it  reminded 
Mary  of  the  face  of  Stephen  when  the  gaping  crowd  had 
seen  it  change  and  become  ' '  as  the  face  of  an  angel. ' '  Al 
most  holy  was  the  expression  of  Phoebe's  white,  glowing 
face.  "  It 's  more  than  love.  ...  I  worship  him  the  way  I 
ought  to  worship  God ! ' '  she  cried. 

"Oh,  my  little  child!  Take  care  .  .  .  take  care!"  said 
Mary,  a  clutch  at  her  heart  of  pitiful  tenderness.  "The 
woman  who  loves  a  man  like  that  throws  herself  bound 
into  the  furnace." 

"I'd  be  thrown  bound  into  hell  for  him!"  said  Phoebe 
in  a  low,  concentrated  voice.  And  in  the  blindness  of  her 
inconsistent  simplicity,  not  even  for  a  fleeting  second  did 
it  cross  her  mind  that  it  was  she  herself  who  might  be  drag 
ging  Owen  into  the  very  depths  she  spoke  of.  A  great  Rus 
sian  has  truly  said  that  "as  a  general  rule,  people,  even 
the  wicked,  are  much  more  naif  and  simple-hearted  than 
we  suppose." 

Mary  shuddered  and  drew  her  sharply  up  beside  her. 

"Don't,  dear,"  she  said.  "It  hurts  me  to  hear  you  talk 
like  that." 

' '  You  don 't  know  .  .  .  you  don 't  know  .  .  .  '  said 
Phoebe,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  beginning  to 
shiver  also.  "I  ...  I  can't  explain  .  .  .  but  that's  the 
way  I  feel,  and  nothing  can  ever,  ever  change  it!" 


WORLD'S-EXD 

When  they  went  downstairs  again  they  found  Owen  and 
Mr.  Nelson  seriously  poring  over  some  papers  which  lay 
between  them  on  one  of  the  little  tables.  The  old  gentle 
man  welcomed  Mary  warmly.  He  had  always  been  "con 
siderably  attached"  to  her,  as  he  would  have  put  it,  and 
now  he  felt  that  her  presence  during  this  agitating  time 
was  a  great  boon. 

"I  suppose  my  little  girl  has  been  telling  you  of  the 
very  gratifying  and  happy  change  that  is  to  take  place  in 
her  life,  so  soon  now,"  he  said,  retaining  Mary's  hand  a 
moment  and  looking  up  at  her  rather  wistfully.  "I  de 
plore  my  own  loss  but  not  her  gain,"  he  added.  "And  if 
you  could  make  me  a  little  visit  when  she  has  gone  next 
week  I  should  count  it  a  generous  action  on  your  part, 
my  dear  Mary." 

"Of  course  I'll  come,  Uncle  Thomas,"  said  Mary  cor 
dially.  Her  heart  contracted,  but  nothing  of  this  inner 
hurt  showed  on  her  kind  face.  "Is  it  to  be  so  soon?"  she 
asked. 

"Owen — our  kinsman  has  requested  me  to  call  him 
by  his  Christian  name — Owen  wishes  the  wedding  to 
take  place  this  coming  Monday,  as  the  French  steamer 
sails  on  Wednesday,  and  he  is  very  anxious  to  take  Phoebe 
away  from,  the  scene  of  her  late  illness.  My  child,"  he 
continued,  addressing  Phoebe,  "you  will  share  your  life 
with  one  of  the  most  generous  of  men.  These  marriage 
settlements  that.  ..." 

"Please "  said  Owen  with  a  hot  blush,  putting  his 

hand  over  the  papers. 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  old  gentleman  indulgently,  "I 
will  respect  your  modesty.  It  is  a  rare  enough  asset  now 
adays  if  all  that  is  told  me  be  true." 

"By  the  way,  Phoebe,"  said  Owen,  hastening  to  change 
the  subject  beyond  all  possibility  of  relapse,  "this  will  be 
a  famous  chance  to  choose  your  cabin,  with  Mary  here 
to  help  you.  I've  got  the  plan  of  the  Lorraine  with  me. 

;  > 

He  came  over  and  drew  up  a  chair  and  one  of  Mr.  Nel 
son's  brood  of  little  tables  to  where  Mary  and  Phoebe 
were  seated. 

"See,"  he  said,  spreading  the  plan  of  the  ship  out  be 
fore  them,  "there  are  the  different  decks.  Now  you  can 
take  Mary's  advice,  because  she's  crossed  so  often,  and 
will  know  know  better  what  you  would  probably  like  than 


170  WORLD 'S-END 

I  would.  If  we  take  a  cabine  de  luxe  it  will  give  us 
away  at  once,  and  I  detest  deck  cabins  myself — there's 
always  such  a  beastly  row  going  on  just  outside — but  most 
women  prefer  them,  I  believe." 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  getting  the  bearings  on  the  rather 
intricate  plan  before  them  that  he  did  not  notice  how  rose- 
red  Phoebe's  face  flared,  nor  the  almost  piteous  look  of 
shy  alarm  that  came  into  her  eyes. 

Mary  took  one  of  the  cold  little  hands  and  held  it  tightly. 
Men  were  dear,  clumsy,  tactless  beings,  she  reflected. 
Probably  Saint  Peter's  father  never  left  off  telling  him 
that  he  would  have  to  set  off  for  his  fishing  at  cock-crow, 
while  his  mother,  she  felt  sure,  never  so  much  as  used  a 
feather-bed  again !  She  smiled  her  little,  dry  half-smile, 
thankful  that  she  held  the  priceless  antidote  of  humour 
against  pain.  She  explained  the  different  decks  to  Phoebe 
with  kindly  interest. 

''I  agree  with  Owen,"  she  said.  "Unless  you  want  to 
be  labeled  'bride  and  groom'  from  the  start  you  can't  have 
a  cabin  e  de  luxe.  I'd  rather  have  cabins  on  the  saloon 
deck  every  time,  especially  at  this  season  of  the  year.  You 
can  have  the  ports  open  all  the  way." 

"These  two  I've  marked  are  rather  nice,  I  think,"  said 
Owen,  pointing  with  the  little  aluminum  pencil  that 
Phoebe  was  beginning  to  associate  with  him  as  Mary  did 
the  sleeve-links. 

"Very  nice,"  said  Mary  approvingly.  "Not  too  near 
the  dining-room,  and  not  too  far  from  the  bath 
rooms.  Do  we  practical  old  travellers  shock  your  ro 
mance,  my  dear?"  she  ended,  turning  with  a  smile  to 
Phoebe. 

"Oh,  no  ...  no  indeed.  I  think  it's  lovely  of  you  to 
take  such  interest  ..."  protested  the  girl,  stammering 
and  blushing  more  than  ever. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Owen,  also  smiling  at  her  confused 
little  face,  "shall  we  say  these  two?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  please, "  murmured  Phoebe. 

"Then  that's  settled,"  said  he  with  an  air  of  relief, 
and  folding  up  the  plan  returned  it  to  his  pocket. 

' '  What  about  your  wedding-dress,  Phoebe  ? ' '  asked  Mary 
suddenly. 

"I  .  .  .  I 'm  not  going  to  have  one,  Cousin  Mary, ' '  said 
the  girl,  white  now  instead  of  rosy. 

' '  No  wedding-dress  and  veil ! ' '  cried  Mary.    ' '  But  if  I  'm 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  171 

to  act  maman  to  you,  I  really  can't  allow  such  a  breach 
of  tradition !" 

"No  .  .  .  please  Cousin  Mary  .  .  .  please,"  pleaded  the 
girl,  catching  her  by  the  arm,  such  a  passion  almost  as 
of  terror  in  her  dilating  eyes  that  Mary  was  startled. 

Owen  came  to  the  poor  child's  rescue. 

"I've  asked  her  not  to,  Mary,"  he  said.  "I  hate  all 
that  sort  of  bridal  pomp.  .  .  .  Why  couldn't  she  be  mar 
ried  in  the  gown  she  has  on.  It's  quite  lovely  I  think." 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Mary.  "  'Yellow's  foresworn' — don't 
you  remember?" 

She  quoted  the  old  rhyme: 

"Green  is  forsaken, 

Yellow  's  foresworn ; 
Blue 's  the  sweetest  colour  that 's  worn. ' ' 

"Why  not  the  Virgin's  colours, — blue  and  white?  She 
would  look  a  perfect  sweet  in  blue  and  white?" 

Phoebe  changed  colour  so  rapidly  that  Mary  could  only 
account  for  this  over-emotionalism  by  the  fact  that  she  had 
not  entirely  recovered  from  her  illness. 

"Listen,  Phoebe  dear,"  she  said,  drawing  the  girl  to 
her.  "Let's  send  Owen  back  to  talk  to  Uncle  Thomas  and 
I'll  tell  you  a  nice  plan  I've  thought  of." 

She  gave  Owen  a  look  over  Phoebe's  head  that  sent  him 
back  to  Mr.  Nelson's  chair  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
Then  she  said:  "Darling,  I've  a  really  sweet  white  chif 
fon  gown  that  I've  never  worn  but  once.  I'm  a  famous 
seamstress,  and  I  can  fit  it  to  you  in  a  morning.  You 
shall  just  wear  that  and  some  of  the  lovely  white  roses  I 
saw  in  your  garden  as  we  came  up." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  dear,  dear  Cousin  Mary! — How  good 
you  are  to  me!"  said  the  girl,  a  mist  of  gratitude  in  her 
eyes.  "Everyone  is  good  to  me — oh,  much,  much  too  good 
to  me.  I  don't  deserve  any  of  it — not  any  of  it." 

And  to  Mary's  dismay  she  caught  her  under  lip  in  her 
teeth  and  began  to  struggle  with  sobs  that  would  rise  in 
spite  of  her.  She  looked  so  pale  now  that  Mary  came  to 
the  swift  conclusion  that  the  excitement  of  their  visit  and 
the  allusions  to  her  wedding  had  been  too  much  for  her 
strength  after  her  recent  grave  illness. 

"There  .  .  .  there  ..."  she  soothed,  patting  the  quiv 
ering  shoulders  as  she  would  have  done  a  child 's.  "Go  up 
to  vour  little  blue-rose  room  and  lie  down  dear.  I  shall 


172  WORLD'S-END 

take  Owen  away  now.  "We've  stayed  too  long  as  it  is.  I 
see  well  why  he  wants  to  get  you  away  in  such  a  hurry. 
This  illness  has  played  all  sorts  of  pranks  with  your  nerves. 
Go  and  rest  now,  and  I'll  bring  over  the  white  chiffon 
tomorrow. ' ' 

As  they  drove  home  she  told  Owen  that  Phoebe  seemed 
to  her  terribly  over-wrought  and  keyed  up. 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  have  a  doctor  see  her?" 
she  ended.  "This  week  will  be  very  trying  for  her.  And 
I  really  can't  think  how  the  child  is  to  go  quietly  through 
such  a  strain  as  the  wedding  ceremony  without  something 
to  calm  her  a  little." 

"Phoebe  has  her  mother's  dread  of  doctors,"  said  Owen, 
giving  his  attention  to  "Jinko,"  who  was  playing  rock 
ing-horse  at  a  bit  of  white  paper  in  the  road. 

"But  she  would  listen  to  you,  Owen." 

"Sally  and  her  father  both  think  it's  better  not  to 
force  her  when  she's  so  excitable." 

"Well  ..."  said  Mary  doubtfully,  "you  three  have 
been  with  her  through  it  all,  so  I  suppose  you  know  best, 
but  I  should  certainly  have.  Charles  Patton  in  to  give  her 
some  simple  nerve-sedative." 


XXV 

I 

PHOSE  were  days  of  exquisite  mental  torture  for  Sally. 

-*•  Obliged  by  force  of  circumstance  to  control  herself 
outwardly  when  in  the  presence  of  others,  her  bedroom 
became  the  scene  of  frantic  outbursts,  during  which  she 
would  prowl  to  and  fro  as  in  a  cage,  talking  aloud  to  her 
self,  gesticulating  fiercely,  sometimes  dashing  objects  to  the 
floor,  as  she  had  hurled  her  brush  against  the  wall  on  the 
night  that  Owen  had  told  her  of  his  coming  marriage. 
"I'm  going  mad.  ...  I'm  going  mad,"  she  would  say, 
her  hands  in  her  grey  hair.  And  indeed  it  was  a  sort  of 
madness  that  possessed  poor  Sally  then, — the  cruellest  of 
dementias,  impotent  rage, — that  starveling  passion  that 
thrives  on  its  own  leanness,  and  grows  by  what  it  may 
not  feed  on.  She  "went  all  the  day  angry"  and  the  night 
did  not  allay  her  pangs,  for  she  had  dark,  turgid  dreams 
wherein,  when  she  would  have  struck,  her  arm  encountered 
soft  waves  of  resistance,  as  though  one  should  try  to  smite 
a  foe  through  heavy  waters  and — when  she  wrould  have 


WORLD'S-END  173 

spoken  fierce  truths, — her  tongue  seemed  pasted  to  her 
palate. 

Then,  too,  reaction  would  come  upon  her  without  warn 
ing — a  slacking  of  the  savage  impulses  almost  harder  to 
bear  than  her  spasms  of  thwarted  anger.  And  crouching 
forward  in  her  chair,  her  chin  gripped  in  her  thin,  jewelled 
fingers,  she  would  brood  by  the  hour  on  the  infamy  of 
her  silence,  at  this  crucial  moment  in  his  life,  towards  the 
brother  wlio  had  been  more  than  a  brother  to  her  in  all 
her  troubles.  Yet  not  for  a  heart-beat  did  she  think  of 
breaking  it. 

There  is  no  selfishness  so  ruthless  as  the  selfishness  of  the 
female  defending  its  young;  the  human  jungle  knows  no 
more  pitiless  man-eater  than  the  over-maternalised  woman 
with  an  only  son  to  nourish  and  protect.  Had  Owen  been 
about  to  marry  unwittingly  some  street-woman,  and  had 
this  marriage  been  to  Richard's  profit,  Sally  would  still 
have  held  her  tongue.  She  loved  Richard  with  that  strange 
animal  passion  of  maternity  which  has  no  sense  of  hu 
mour  and  therefore  no  sense  of  proportion.  "And  they 
twain  shall  be  one  flesh"  applied  in  her  mind  to  mother 
and  child  far  more  than  to  husband  and  wife. 

When  Richard  had  been  laid  in  her  arms  after  her  dark 
agony,  she  had  not  once  thought  of  her  husband  as  his 
father.  Poor  Peter,  lifting  his  round,  sanguine  face  all 
blotched  with  tears  of  pity  from  the  rumpled  bed-clothes 
where  he  had  been  hiding  it  until  this  supreme  moment, 
had  seemed  as  detached  from  her  mysterious,  isolated  rap 
ture  as  great  Csesar  dead  and  turned  to  clay.  "Mine  .  .  . 
mine  .  .  .  mine  .  .  .  mine  .  .  .  mine,"  her  exultant  rhap- 
sodist  heart  had  beat  the  measure.  The  child  was  hers  as 
the  world  is  its  Creator's  ...  as  Adam  was  his  Maker's 
when  he  formed  him  alone  out  of  the  dust. 

Despite  these  devastating  outbreaks  in  the  privacy  of  her 
own  room,  however,  Sally  played  the  part  she  had  elected 
gallantly  enough  in  public.  Mary  found  the  worn,  burnt- 
out  look  in  her  face  quite  natural,  considering  all  things, 
and  she  was  very  tender  with  her  somewhat  trying  friend 
during  all  that  time.  It  is  certain  that  one  gets  used  to 
suffering,  just  as  the  muscles  grow  accustowed  to  hard 
labour,  and,  though  Mary  also  had  some  grim  strug 
gles  with  pain  in  those  days,  yet  she  bore  it  well,  and  no 
trace  of  it  ever  crept  into  her  face  when  others  were  look 
ing. 


174  WORLD'S-END 

She  went  over  alone,  next  morning,  with  the  white  chif 
fon  gown,  thinking  with  sad  whimsicality  how  odd  it  was 
that  Owen's  bride  should  be  going  to  wear  one  of  her 
dresses  at  the  altar.  ' '  Life 's  little  ironies, ' '  Thomas  Hardy 
called  such  incidents. 

Phoebe  was  much  calmer  today  and,  though  the  lack 
of  excitement  left  her  face  colourless  and  a  little  wan, 
Mary  thought  her  even  lovelier  than  before.  The  girl's 
almost  pathetic  appreciation  of  her  gift  won  all  her 
tender  heart. 

Only  one  jar  she  had  during  that  visit,  and  this  was 
when  her  uncle  alluded  to  Richard's  portrait  of  Phoebe 
and  insisted  on  Phoebe's  getting  it  out  for  Mary  to  see. 

The  girl  changed  colour  in  the  painful  way  of  yester 
day  and  said — in  the  low  tone  that  Mary  had  already 
learned  meant  inner  distress — "I  can't,  father.  Cousin 
Owen  had  it  packed  Wednesday  to  send  to  New  York." 

"You  will  see  it  there,  then,  my  dear  Mary,"  the  old 
gentleman  said  cheerfully.  "I  imagine  that  you  will  not 
find  it  a  very  good  likeness." 

When  Mary  and  Phoebe  were  in  the  latter 's  bedroom, 
trying  on  the  chiffon  gown,  Mary  said  as  she  pinned  the 
folds  into  place: 

"Phoebe,  dear,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  yesterday  that 
Richard  had  painted  your  portrait?" 

There  was  a  certain  reproach  in  her  kind  voice. 

Phoebe  answered  again  in  that  low  tone. 

' '  I  hate  that  picture,  Cousin  Mary.  I  hate  talking  about 
it." 

"But  you  let  me  say  all  those  things,  dear,  without 
giving  me  a  hint  that  you  had  seen  him  so  often." 

"I  despise  him  ...  I  can't  bear  to  talk  about  him." 

Try  as  she  would  to  prevent  it,  a  little  rigour  ran  over 
her. 

"Was  he  ...  rude  to  you?"  asked  Mary  gravely. 

There  was  a  slight  pause. 

"He  ...  he  ...  made  fun  of  me,"  said  Phoebe  at 
last,  almost  inaudibly. 

There  was  such  bitterness  in  the  young,  stifled  voice 
that  Mary  thought  she  had  the  clue.  "I  see,"  she  told 
herself.  "He  ridiculed  all  her  girlish  ideals  and  made  his 
usual  offensive  remarks  about  decency  and  religion  and 
all  the  virtues  .  .  .  quite  enough  to  make  a  romantic 
young  girl  'despise  him/  as  we  Virginians  say."  She 


"  'WAS    HE    ...    RUDE  TO   YOU?'   ASKED    MARY  GRAVELY"— Page   174 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  175 

decided  not  to  press  the  matter  further,  and  merely 
said : 

"I'm  glad  you  don't  like  him,  dear.  I  was  afraid  that 
you  might  have  been  impressed  by  his  gorgeous  paradoxes. 
He  looks  at  life  through  very  ugly  spectacles,  does  Rich 
ard." 

Phoebe  said  nothing,  and  when  Mary  had  finished  pin 
ning  the  gown  into  place  they  sat  near  the  window  and 
sewed  on  it  together. 

Mary  thought  the  picture  of  the  young  girl  sewing  on 
her  wedding-dress,  with  the  great  crow  perched  in  his 
usual  place  on  her  shoulder,  singularly  striking.  "Omi 
nous,  "  she  felt  the  superstitious  would  have  called  it. 
"Phoebe,"  she  said  suddenly,  returning  to  the  subject  that 
she  had  meant  to  dismiss  entirely,  "how  did  Richard  paint 
you?" 

"In  a  gold  gown,"  said  Phoebe,  her  voice  again  sink 
ing. 

""With  the  crow?"  asked  Mary  intuitively. 

"Yes." 

"He  would,"  said  Mary,  and  she  smiled,  dropping  the 
subject  this  time  for  good. 

Sally  came  over  once  with  Mary  before  the  wedding. 
She  was  very  polite  and  interested  in  her  manner,  and 
Phoebe  could  gather  nothing  of  her  inner  thought  from 
her  composed  face  and  sombre  black  eyes  which  never 
rested  fq>r  an  instant  upon  hers.  She  had  dreaded  be 
yond  words  that  Sally  would  seek  an  interview  with  her 
alone,  and  when  Owen  made  excuses  about  her  not  com 
ing  to  Nelson's  Gift  again  before  Monday,  as  she  was  quite 
ill  and  meant  to  keep  her  bed  until  then, — a  great  weight 
seemed  to  roll  from  Phoebe's  heart. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  Owen  came  with  the  brown  cobs 
and  took  her  for  a  long  drive. 

She  wore  the  corn-coloured  frock  because  he  had  said 
that  it  was  "lovely,"  and  a  white  gauze  hat  with  wreaths 
of  little  blue  roses  that  Mary  had  given  her. 

"You  look  like  the  spirit  of  the  day  in  that  sunshiny 
gown  and  sky-coloured  hat,"  said  Owen,  smiling  down  at 
her.  "But  it  seems  to  me  that  your  expression  is  just  a 
little  too  sober  for  your  dress,  dear.  What  is  it,  sweet 
heart?  Doubts?  .  .  .  Have  you  been  counting  my  grey 
hairs  when  I  wasn't  looking?" 

'  *  You  haven 't  hardly  a  grey  hair !    Your  hair  is  beauti- 


176  WORLD'S-END 

f ul ! ' '  cried  Phoebe  hotly,  and  then  blushed  as  Owen  broke 
into  irrepressible  laughter. 

''I  shall  have  to  call  you  'honey-pot,'  "  he  said,  "I'm 
not  used  to  such  sugared  speeches." 

""Well  ...  it  is  beautiful,"  said  Phoebe,  taking  refuge 
in  obstinacy — then  with  a  little  touch  of  her  old  spirit— 
"People  must  have  told  you  so  before,  Cousin  Owen — 
I'm  sure  they  must!" 

"Yes,  I'm  a  pretty  fellow,"  said  Owen,  delighted  with 
this  outburst,  and  glad  to  tease  her  a  little.  "Hearths 
have  been  strewed  with  wreckage  by  my  mere  passing." 

Phoebe's  face  went  crimson  again. 

"You're  laughing  at  me,"  she  said  chokingly.  "Oh, 
Cousin  Owen  please,  please  don't  laugh  at  me!" 

In  return  he  bent  down,  put  his  hand  over  hers  and, 
looking  into  her  shy  eyes,  said,  smiling: 

"Phoebe,  you  must  learn  to  call  me  Owen." 

"I  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  I  never  can,"  she  stammered  gaz 
ing  into  the  goldish-grey  eyes  so  near  her,  and  noticing, 
despite  her  confusion,  that  there  were  little  flecks  of 
brown  and  green  near  their  pupils.  "It  sounds  so  ... 
so.  ...  " 

"Disrespectful?"  teased  Owen. 

' '  You  're  unkind  ! ' '  flashed  Phoebe  passionately,  and  sud 
den  tears  made  his  face  seem  blurred  to  her.  Owen  felt 
remorseful.  He  had  only  meant  to  laugh  her  into  being 
a  little  more  at  ease  with  him.  Poor  child !  She  was  just 
one  quiver  of  sore  nerves. 

' '  I  wouldn  't  be  unkind  to  you  for  anything  in  the  world, 
little  heart,"  he  said  gently.  "Just  feel  in  my  pocket— 
I  need  both  hands  for  these  monkeys  by  this  bank — and 
see  what  you'll  find  there.  That  will  show  you  better 
than  words  where  I  place  kindness  in  the  scheme  of 
things." 

Phobe  hesitated  an  instant,  then  he  felt  her  slight 
fingers  fluttering  like  a  bird  in  his  pocket.  She  drew  out 
a  little  blue-velvet  box  and  her  colour  changed  like  the 
wind. 

"Open  it,  dear,"  he  said,  and  she  pressed  the  spring. 
Her  wedding  ring  lay  there  before  her.  She  sat  staring 
at  it,  her  lips  parted. 

"Read  what's  inside,  Phoebe,"  he  said  again. 

She  looked  in  the  narrow  circlet  and  read  the  words: 
"Phoebe — Owen.  July  8,  1912.  Kindliness." 


WORLD'S-END  177 

"You  see,"  he  said,  watching  her  face,  over  which  the 
quick  emotions  chased  each  other  like  shadows  over  a  field 
of  blowing  wheat.  "I've  chosen  'kindliness'  as  the  motto 
of  our  life  together,  dear  Phoebe.  So  you  may  always  be 
sure, — whatever  happens, — that  I  never  mean  to  be  un 
kind." 

Suddenly  she  stooped  and  pressed  her  lips  to  his  hand, 
so  whollv  occupied  with  the  fractious  "Jinks"  and 
"Jinko." 

"You're  like  God  to  me!"  she  said,  in  response  to  his 
embarrassed  remonstrance,  and  hid  her  face  against  his 
sleeve. 

At  first  Mary  had  thought  of  spending  the  night  before 
the  marriage  with  Phoebe  at  Nelson 's  Gift,  but  she  decided, 
after  talking  it  over  with  Owen,  to  leave  the  child  quite 
alone  with  her  father  on  that  eve,  and  to  go  over  before 
breakfast  in  the  morning  with  him.  The  wedding  was  to 
take  place  very  early,  in  order  to  allow  them  to  catch 
the  noon  train  at  Crewe. 

And  Phoebe,  as  dearly  as  she  loved  Mary,  was  glad 
to  be  alone,  for  being  with  her  father  seemed  almost 
like  being  alone — so  far,  so  mercifully  far  was  he  from 
all  real  knowledge  of  the  conflicting  passions  in  her 
heart. 

She  sat  on  a  low  stool  close  beside  him  after  supper, 
and  leaned  her  head  against  his  knee. 

"I  hate  to  think  of  your  being  all  alone  when  I  am 
gone,  father  dear,"  she  said  wistfully.  "But  then,  Cousin 
Mary  is  going  to  stay  a  week  with  you,  and  soon  Aunt 
Charlotte  will  be  coming.  I  am  so  glad  that  she  will  make 
her  home  here  now." 

"Your  great-aunt,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  clearing  his 
throat,  "is  of  an  affectionate  disposition.  I  am  considera 
bly  attached  to  her — but  she  is  strangely  fantastical  in 
F.ome  of  her  ideas.  It  will  not  be  like  having  you,  my 
daughter. ' ' 

"Oh,  father  dear,"  cried  Phoebe,  fondling  his  old  hand 
against  her  cheek.  "I  am  coming  back  to  you  soon,  soon! 
Cousin  ...  I  mean  Owen  says  that  I  shall." 

"A  wife's  place  is  with  her  husband,  my  child,"  said 
the  old  man,  his  voice  quivering  a  little.  "Owen  will  not 
find  me  a  jealous  parent." 

' ;  He  loves  you  too  ...  he  wants  me  to  be  with  you.  .  .  . 


178  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

He  showed  me  with  a  pencil  just  where  your  room  would 
be  at  World 's-End." 

"He  is  one  of  the  best  of  men,"  said  her  father,  with 
feeling.  ' '  I  part  with  you  in  perfect  confidence  as  to  your 
future.  I  am  resigning  you  into  the  care  of  a  noble  char 
acter." 

"Yes,  yes,  father  dear,"  cried  ardent  Phoebe,  and  she 
knelt  up  and  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  drawing  the 
old  face,  with  its  subtle,  mawkish  odor  of  age,  close  to 
her  fruit-scented  cheek.  "There  is  no  one  as  noble  as  he 
is  in  all  the  world,  except  you,  my  own  dear  father ! ' ' 

But  in  her  heart  of  hearts  Phoebe  did  not  think  even 
her  father,  whom  she  fondly  loved",  as  noble  as  the  man 
whom  she  was  to  marry  on  the  morrow. 

"There  .  .  .  there,  my  child.  Calm  yourself,"  he  re 
plied,  smiling  faintly  at  the  affectionate  falsehood  which 
he  divined.  "It  is  not  well  to  compare  the  differing  but 
equally  natural  affections  which  we  may  feel.  Sit  here 
by  me,  wThere  we  can  both  look  upon  your  dear  mother's 
face,  and  let  us  offer  a  prayer  in  our  hearts  that  her 
knowledge  and  love  may  be  with  you  in  this  hour  of  your 
happiness." 

They  sat  there  silently,  hand  in  hand,  and  the  old  heart 
going  gently  out  on  the  tide  of  tender  memories  could  not 
know  the  shrinking  anguish  which  wrung  the  young  heart, 
so  miserably  begging  God  to  keep  from  her  mother  the 
dark  truth — to  let  her  know  only  so  much  of  her  child's 
fate  as  would,  she  felt  sure,  make  even  heaven  a  happier 
place  to  her. 

And  all  night  long  Phoebe  dreamed  that  her  mother 
came  flitting  softly  near,  and  that  her  eyes,  at  first  so  lov 
ingly  happy,  would  change  and  grow  piteous,  as  some 
dark  power  whispered  the  truth  to  her.  Only  towards 
morning  did  she  fall  into  an  unquiet  sleep  and  from  this 
she  was  waked  by  the  blithe  voice  of  Aunt  Patty  saying: 

"Git  up,  git  up  1'il  bride!  Dee  bridegroom's  a-wraitin' 
f uh  you,  an '  Miss  Mary 's  a-dressin '  dee  bridal-altrum ! ' ' 

When  the  old  negress  had  gone  Phoebe  slipped  from 
her  bed  upon  her  knees  and  prayed  passionately  for  the 
first  time  since  disaster  had  overtaken  her.  She  prayed 
that  whatever  she  might  suffer,  whatever  punishment 
might  fall  upon  her,  whatever  life  held  for  her  of  dark 
ness  and  of  bitterness,  that  never,  never,  through  her 
should  sorrow  come  upon  Owen. 


WORLD'S-EXD  179 

"0  God,"  ran  the  childish  wording  of  her  prayer, 
"Thou  kuowest  that  I  love  him  and  adore  him  more  than 
I  do  thee — but,  0  kind  God,  only  punish  me  for  that  .  .  . 
keep  him  safe  from  my  sins!" 

The  day  was  again  lovely,  but  promised  rain  towards 
evening.  The  whole  green  world  seemed  but  the  play 
ground  for  joyous  shadows.  In  Phoebe's  garden  the  roses 
fluttered  in  the  wind  like  white  birds  trying  to  escape  and 
join  in  the  blithe  game  of  sun  and  air.  Mary  ruthlessly 
snipped  off  great  masses  of  them  to  decorate  the  old  oc 
tagonal  hall  where  the  wedding  ceremony  was  to  take 
place.  She  had  brought  with  her  a  heavily  embroidered 
shawl  of  white  Canton  crepe  that  Oven's  grandmother 
had  worn  on  her  wedding  journey;  there  had  been  no 
railway  smoke  to  defile  such  things  in  those  days,  and 
the  pure,  white  folds  made  a  lovely  covering  for  the  lit 
tle  table  that  Mary  had  set  as  an  altar,  with  silver  candle 
sticks  and  heaps  of  Baiiksia  and  Damask  roses.  Box  and 
ivy  she  trailed  over  the  old  green-paneled  walls.  The 
place  looked  like  the  Bower  of  Seven  Delights  when  she 
had  finished.  She  had  sent  Owen  up  to  wait  in  Mr.  Nel 
son's  study,  now  seldom  used  because  of  the  old  man's 
rheumatic  knees.  Sally  would  not  arrive  for  yet  an 
other  half -hour.  Stepping  back  to  the  front  door,  Mary 
looked  approvingly  upon  her  work — then  suddenly,  there 
being  no  one  to  see,  her  hands  went  up  to  her  face  and 
she  swayed  a  little.  The  knife  in  her  heart  had  turned 
sharply.  For  one  second  she  had  realised  what  it  was  that 
she  had  been  about  that  morning.  Only  for  a  moment, — 
because  Mary  would  have  made  an  excellent  citizen  of 
Carthage  during  the  last  days  of  that  city. 

Then  she  went  up  to  help  Phoebe  adjust  the  white  chif 
fon  gown  on  which  were  several  dozens  of  little  hooks- 
and-loops  to  fasten. 

The  girl  began  trembling  from  the  time  the  gown  went 
over  her  head  until  the  last  hook  was  in  place.  And  even 
when  this  was  done  the  trembling  continued.  Mary 
whipped  out  a  bottle  of  aromatic  ammonia  from  her  bag. 
She  put  a  teaspoonful  in  half  a  glass  of  water  and  ap 
proached  Phoebe. 

"Take  this,"  she  said  firmly,  holding  the  cloudy  mix 
ture  to  her  lips.  The  girl  obeyed  docilely  and  by  and  by 
the  trembling  ceased. 

In  the  meantime  Owen,  feeling  very  absurd  in  a  frock- 


180  WORLD'S-END 

coat  and  white  tie  at  half-past  nine  in  the  morning,  was 
walking  about  the  little  study  upstairs  gazing  alternately 
at  a  fine  old  print  of  Harrow,  to  which  school  Mr.  Nelson's 
father  had  also  gone,  and  reading  over  and  over  the  dry 
titles  on  the  musty,  calf-skin  backs  of  the  fat  volumes 
presented  to  him  on  neat  wooden  shelves. 

"The  Nelsons  of  Fauquier,"  he  read,  "The  Nelsons  of 
Queen  Charlotte  County,"  "The  Moores  of  Farley" — 
"Owen  Randolph's  Exploration  of  the  Green-Flower 
River" — "Account  by  Phoebe  Nelson  of  her  Interview 
with  Powhatan. "  This  promised  a  moment's  diversion  at 
least.  He  took  down  the  yellow-grey  volume  and  opened 
it.  Little  silver-grey  creatures  fled  over  the  page  like 
minnows.  He  slapped  the  book  together  to  dislodge  them 
and  read: 

"I  was  mightily  astonished  when  I  saw  that  the  hue  of 
the  renowned  Chieftain  was  no  more  of  a  ruddy  colour 
than  my  shoe.  He  was  a  right  mannerly  man  for  a  savage 
and  bore  himself  with  a  sour  pride.  I  found  it  difficult 
to  support  the  glances  of  his  eagle  eye  with  becoming  com 
posure.  The  interpreter  disclosed  his  meaning  in  lan 
guage  that  seemed  to  me  too  choice  to  emanate  from  an  un 
tutored  savage,  but  he  assured  me  that  Powhatan  pos 
sessed  a  considerable  gift  of  diction.  .  .  .  ' 

Owen  put  back  the  little  book  with  a  smile.  The  Phoebe 
Nelson  of  that  day  expressed  herself  so  exactly  like  her 
descendant  the  Thomas  Nelson  of  this.  Their  "gift  of 
diction,"  as  she  would  have  said,  was  almost  identical. 

He  pulled  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it  ...  a  quarter 
past  ten.  The  Reverend  Henry  Nelson,  a  kinsman  of 
course,  was  to  arrive  at  this  hour.  Owen  and  Phoebe  were 
to  be  married  punctually  at  half-past  ten,  to  allow  an  hour 
for  the  drive  to  Crewe.  And  here  Owen  became  aware 
of  such  physical  nervousness  that  to  jump  from  the  win 
dow,  even  at  the  risk  of  breaking  his  legs,  would  have  been 
a  relief.  He  went  to  it  and  looked  out.  Ah  .  .  .  there 
was  Sally — in  a  gown  of  white  lace  that  she  had  got  to 
wear  when  she  went  to  Newport  with  Richard  later  in 
the  summer.  How  ghastly  she  looked — poor  Sally !  He 
felt  that  he  must  look  queer  himself.  Certainly  civilisation 
liked  to  invent  for  itself  trying  ordeals.  If  he  and  Phoebe 
could  only  have  driven  over  quietly  to  the  Reverend 
Henry's  some  morning  and  said:  "We  want  to  catch  the 
noon  train  for  New  York, — please  marry  us  as  quickly 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  181 

as  you  can,"  what  a  simplification  of  everything  that 
would  have  been  !  But  then  women  liked  these  emotional  oc 
casions.  And  suddenly  came  the  thought  of  Phoebe — 
enduring  far  more  at  this  moment  than  anything  that  he 
could  imagine  with  all  his  keen  sympathy — of  Phoebe 
being  decked  in  bridal  white  over  the  dark,  bitter  secret 
in  her  heart.  It  was  dreadful  that  there  seemed  no 
escape  for  reasonable  beings  from  such  tawdry  tortures 
as  these !  He  was  now  so  nervous  that  his  throat  felt  stiff 
like  wood,  and  he  would  have  given  much  for  a  shameless 
draught  of  Mr.  Nelson's  cherished  Madeira. 

He  began  again  reading  over  the  list  of  unvarying  Nel 
sons  and  their  native  localities,  in  sheer  despair,  wrhen 
the  door  opened  and  Marv  said  softly: 

"Owen." 

He  jumped  towards  her. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  scared  by  her  pale  face. 

"Nothing.  Only  Mr.  Nelson  has  come.  They're  wait 
ing  for  you.  You  are  to  go  down  the  side  stairway  and 
join  Mr.  Nelson  in  the  panelled  room.  Then  he'll  walk  with 
you  to  the  hall.  Stop  near  the  little  table  with  the  silver 
candlesticks.  Sally  is  there  now.  I'll  go  and  get  Phoebe." 

She  was  turning  away  when  Owen  caught  her  arm.  His 
face  was  as  pale  as  hers. 

"Mary  .  .  .  there's  something  terrible  about  all  this. 
It's  like  a  ...  a  ...  an  execution." 

"Oh,  Owen!"  said  Mary,  and  she  couldn't  help  smiling, 
as  sharp  as  was  the  pain  at  her  heart. 

He  stood  gazing  at  her  fixedly. 

"Just  a  minute,  Mary  ...  I  can't  think  somehow.  It's 
a  beastly  feeling." 

"Shall  I  get  you  a  glass  of  wine?" 

"No  .  .  .  no,"  he  said  shamefacedly.  "But  Mary  .  .  . 
I  want  to  thank  you  for  all  you've  done.  .  .  .  '  He 
stooped  down  and  kissed  her  suddenly.  "Bless  you,  dear," 
he  said.  "Now  I'll  go." 

He  found  Mr.  Nelson  waiting  for  him,  attired  also  in 
a  frock-coat,  or  as  he  would  have  said  a  "Prince  Albert," 
of  perfect  preservation  but  quaint  cut.  He  held  the  hand 
that  Owen  gave  him,  and  put  his  other  over  it  in  quite 
a  touchingly  paternal  manner.  "God  bless  you,  my  dear 
boy,"  he  said.  "This  is  a  trying  hour  for  you.  The 
bride's  sensibilities  do  not  have  all  the  'excursions  and 
alarums'  to  themselves  on  such  occasions.  I  recall  the 


182  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

day  of  my  own  wedding  as  I  look  at  you.  I  regret  to  say- 
that  my  chief  happiness  was  deferred  by  Providence  until 
I  was  sixty,  but  I  clearly  recall  the  terror  that  I  felt :  my 
heart  might  have  been  that  of  a  reluctant  maiden." 

At  the  thought  of  Mr.  Nelson  with  the  heart  of  a  "re 
luctant  maiden"  beating  aginst  his  austere  ribs,  Owen 
gave  a  sickly  laugh. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  sir."  he  said,  the  old  Harrow 
speech  coming  back  to  him  in  this  upsetting  moment,  "I'm 
in  a  thumping  funk." 

"I  take  it,"  said  Mr.  Nelson,  "that  in  modern  idiom 
you  mean  to  signify  that  you  are  considerably  agitated." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Owen  humbly. 

"I  had  thought  of  such  a  contingency,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  with  what  on  any  other  face  would  have  been 
a  roguish  smile.  ' '  Here  .  .  .  "he  reached  behind  him  and 
brought  forth  an  actual  bumper  of  Madeira.  "Drink  this, 
my  dear  boy." 

And  Owen  drank  it  with  enthusiasm  to  the  last  honey- 
coloured  drop. 

As  they  entered  the  flower-decked  hall  together  he  saw 
only  a  confused  blur  of  faces,  then  after  a  moment  or  two 
he  recognised  Sally,  standing  very  straight  and  thin,  with 
Hannah's  little  figure  in  its  neat  brown  gros-grain  close 
beside  her. 

Behind  the  altar,  improvised  by  Mary,  the  Reverend 
Henry,  a  tall  handsome  man  of  sixty,  was  standing  quietly, 
his  hands  crossed  over  his  white  stole.  Everything  was 
very  still.  An  oriole  began  its  liquid  fluting  in  the  syringa 
near  the  door,  and  somewhere  the  trilling  note  of  a  tree- 
toad  told  of  coming  rain.  Owen  stared  at  the  roses  on  the 
altar  and  the  candle-flames, — darkly  saffron  in  the  daylight 
wTith  pale-blue  centres,  bowing  softly  this  way  and  that 
in  the  mild  summer  air.  He  noticed  also  how  a  little  green 
beetle,  climbing  awkwardly  over  one  of  the  roses,  made 
it  sway  and  nod.  Then  a  stir  among  the  others  and  the 
tilt  of  their  faces  upward  made  him  know  that  Phoebe  was 
coming  down  the  stairs.  His  heart  began  to  pound  pain 
fully.  He  felt  that  the  blood  had  left  his  face;  his  lips 
were  cold  against  each  other.  He,  too,  looked  up.  Yes, 
there,  with  Mary's  arm  about  her,  she  was  coming  down 
towards  him. 

Mary  had  set  a  chaplet  of  white  roses  on  her  hair,  and 
fastened  a  sash  of  silver  gauze  under  her  small  breasts. 


WORLD'S-EXD  183 

From  her  girdle  to  her  little  feet  in  their  silver  shoes  (a 
pair  of  Mary's)  the  soft,  thin  stuff  hung  in  unbroken 
folds.  Ophelia,  on  her  way  with  flowers  to  be  the  bride 
of  death,  could  not  have  looked  more  white  and  sweetly 
wild  and  virginal.  A  Delphic  trance  of  awed  inspira 
tion  and  bated  fear  shone  from  the  great  bright  eyes 
fixed  on  emptiness.  Her  very  lips — the  lips  that  Sally 
had  thought  too  red  for  a  young  girl — were  "white  as  her 
smock. ' ' 

Mary  brought  her  to  her  father,  who  in  turn  took  her 
icy  little  hand  and  led  her  to  Owen's  side.  There  he  left 
her,  stepping  back  again  to  Mary,  his  old  face  working 
childishly  with  emotion. 

Owen  looked  down  at  the  slight  form,  so  virginal,  yet 
that  was  not  a  virgin's,  and  his  very  bones  seemed  melting 
with  compassion  and  vain  tenderness.  .  .  .  He  longed  to 
take  her  hand  and  hold  it  fast  in  his.  But  she  did  not 
see  this  yearning  look;  her  eyes  were  fixed  before  her, 
wild  and  bright  in  her  face  of  a  rapt  snow-maiden. 

The  Reverend  Henry  had  a  beautiful,  sonorous  voice. 
His  Virginian  accent,  broad  and  homely,  gave  it  a  sort 
of  affectionate  intimacy,  as  though  the  two  standing  before 
him  were  peculiarly  under  his  protection. 

With  gentle  deliberation  he  spoke  the  opening  phrases 
of  the  solemn  service : 

"Dearly  beloved,  we  are  gathered  together  here  in  the 
sight  of  God,  and  in  the  face  of  this  company,  to  join  to 
gether  this  man  and  this  woman  in  holy  matrimony; 
which  is  an  honourable  estate,  instituted  of  God  in  the 
days  of  man's  innocency.  .  .  .  ' 

The  slight  figure  began  to  tremble.  Owen's  hand  went 
out,  regardless  of  all  due  forms,  and  grasping  hers  held 
it  safe  and  warm. 

"...  Into  this  holy  estate  these  two  persons  present 
come  now  to  be  joined.  If  any  man  can  show  just  cause 
why  they  may  not  lawfully  be  joined  together  let  him 
now  speak,  or  else  hereafter  forever  hold  his  peace." 

The  oriole  sang  on  and  on  in  the  pause  that  followed, 
but  no  one  spoke. 

Then  fixing  his  kindly  black  eyes  on  Phoebe  and  Owen 
he  continued,  addressing  them  directly: 

"I  require  and  charge  you  both,  as  ye  will  answer  at  the 
dreadful  day  of  judgment  when  the  secrets  of  all  hearts 
shall  be  disclosed,  that,  if  either  of  you  know  any  impedi- 


184  WORLD'S-END 

ment  why  ye  may  not  be  lawfully  joined  together  in  mat 
rimony,  ye  do  now  confess  it.  .  .  ." 

These  words  seemed  overwhelmingly  terrible  to  the  man, 
knowing  as  he  did  the  piteous  secret  of  the  girl  beside 
him.  His  other  hand  went  over  hers.  He  had  never 
read  the  marriage  ceremony.  If  it  had  been  devised  to 
torture  her  it  could  not  have  been  more  aptly  worded. 
The  blood  rushed  into  his  face.  His  eyes  were  fixed  an 
grily  on  the  prayerbook  held  by  the  rector,  with  its  black 
cover  and  large  gilt  cross. 

But  then  came  the  first  tremendous  question,  put  di 
rectly  to  him,  Owen  Randolph.  Somehow  that  this  stranger 
should  address  him  by  his  Christian  name  made  it  doubly 
impressive,  as  though  all  lesser  conventions  were  swept 
aside  by  this  great  covenant  into  which  he  was  entering. 

"Owen,  wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  thy  wedded 
wife,  to  live  together  after  God's  ordinance  in  the  holy 
estate  of  matrimony?  Wilt  thou  love  her,  comfort  her, 
honour,  and  keep  her  in  sickness  and  in  health;  and,  for 
saking  all  others,  keep  thee  only  unto  her,  so  long  as  ye 
both  shall  live?" 

Prompted  by  the  rector,  Owen  said  "I  will"  in  a  quiet 
voice,  and  this  time  catching  Phoebe's  now  fluttering 
glance,  as  of  a  bird  seeking  some  escape  from  a  closed 
room,  he  smiled  at  her. 

The  warmth  of  life  seemed  restored  to  her  by  that 
smile,  the  colour  flew  once  more  to  her  white  lips  and 
cheeks.  To  the  like  question,  now  put  to  her,  she  whis 
pered  "I  will,"  her  eyes  still  on  Owen's. 

Then  came  the  enquiry : 

"Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man?" 
and  Phoebe's  father  moved  forward,  and  said  clearly, 
though  tremulously,  "I,  her  father." 

This  response  in  words  was  unusual,  but  no  one  in  the 
little  company  noticed  it. 

At  last  Owen  slipped  the  ring  engraved  with  "Kindli 
ness"  upon  her  finger,  and  said  after  the  rector  the 
words:  "With  this  ring  I  thee  wed,  and  with  all  my 
worldly  goods  I  thee  endow:  In  the  name  of  the  Father, 
and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Amen." 

Then  came  the  prayer  "Our  Father"  and  the  great  ap 
peal  beginning  "O  Eternal  God,  Creator  and  Preserver  of 
all  Mankind,  Giver  of  all  spiritual  grace," — the  solemn  in 
junction  : 


WORLD'S -END  185 

"Those  whom  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put 
asunder ' ' ; — the  pronouncement  of  Phoebe  and  Owen  as 
man  and  wife, — the  final  blessing: 

"God  the  Father,  God  the  Son,  God  the  Holy  Ghost, 
bless,  preserve,  and  keep  you :  the  Lord  mercifully  with 
his  favour  look  upon  you  and  fill  you  with  all  spiritual 
benediction  and  grace;  that  ye  may  so  live  together  in 
this  life  that  in  the  world  to  come  ye  may  have  life  ever 
lasting. " 

Then  came  silence,  profound  and  hushed.  The  oriole 
began  to  sing  again.  Somewhere  far  out  on  the  pastures  a 
mare  nickered  to  her  April  foal.  Lastly,  "Wizzy,  escaped 
from  the  stable  where  David  had  shut  him  up  till  the  cere 
mony  should  be  over,  came  with  an  injured  whine  and  rat 
tle  of  toe-nails  along  the  waxed  floor. 

Sally  gave  a  nervous  laugh,  then,  with  a  stir  and  mur 
mur  like  people  waking  out  of  sleep,  the  little  group  broke 
up  and  came  clustering  round  with  good  wishes  and 
friendly  cheerfulness. 

But  in  a  moment  or  two  Mary  took  the  girl  once  more 
up  to  her  little  room  with  its  blue  roses  and  memories 
so  tender  and  so  terrible.  Wordlessly  she  helped  her  to 
change  from  her  white  bridal  dress  into  a  suit  of  silvery 
linen-tweed  (another  gift  of  Mary's).  She  set  the  little 
toque  of  dark  blue  velvet  on  the  sorrel  hair,  gave  her  her 
gloves,  her  handkerchief — then,  suddenly  weeping,  she 
took  her  in  her  arms. 

"Bless  you,  my  darling,"  she  whispered,  "he  will  be 
good  to  you  ...  be  good  to  him." 

' '  May  God  disown  me  if  I  am  not  good  to  him ! ' '  said  the 
girl  passionately.  But  there  were  no  answering  tears  in 
her  eyes.  Something  seemed  to  hold  her  heart  in  bands  of 
steel — joy  and  fear,  too  great  for  tears. 

There  was  a  confused  tumult  of  good-byes,  then  she  was 
in  the  dog-cart  with  Owen,  who  was  to  drive  them  himself 
to  Crewe. 

"Jinks"  and  "Jinko,"  more  freakish  than  ever  with 
the  white  wedding  favours  fluttering  at  their  ears,  bounded 
forward.  Aunt  Polly's  Joe  on  "The  Clown"  cantered 
past  them  to  open  the  first  gate.  They  passed  through  and 
she  was  alone  with  Owen  on  the  high-road  to  Crewe — on 
the  high-road  of  life.  .  .  . 

As  soon  as  they  had  passed  Hollybrook  "Wood  he  gave 
her  the  reins,  saying,  "Hold  these  a  minute,  dear,"  and 


186  WORLD'S-END 

jumping  down  he  took  the  favours  from  the  cobs'  head 
stalls  and  tossed  them  aside. 

"I  won't  have  you  annoyed  with  these  stupid  frip 
peries,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her.  "Thank  God  they  spared 
us  rice  and  old  shoes  at  least!" 

Phoebe  felt  a  passion  of  gratitude  that  he  had  not  said 
anything  serious  or  tender  to  her.  She  felt  that  she  could 
not  have  borne  it. 

The  cobs  sped,  sneezing  with  animal  spirits,  over  the 
road  to  Crewe. 


XXVI 

N  the  Pullman  Phoebe  sat  as  in  a  dream,  her  shoulder 
against  the  little  travelling-cushion  in  its  scarlet  leather 
case  that  Owen  had  slipped  behind  her.  The  familiar 
landscape  streaking  by  looked  as  foreign  to  her  as  Rus 
sia  or  "the  still  vext  Bermoothes. "  She  could  see  Amer 
ica's  round,  fuzzy  poll  in  the  neat  black  turban  that  Mary 
had  trimmed  especially  for  her  repeated  in  a  little  mirror 
across  the  aisle.  Owen  had  said : 

"I've  put  America  in  the  same  car  with  us,  Phoebe, 
because  you  might  need  her  for  something." 

Then  he  had  gone  off  in  consultation  with  the  negro 
porter. 

Phoebe  looked  at  her  own  feet,  as  they  rested  on  the 
seat  before  her,  clad  in  a  pair  of  Mary's  shoes  with  flat, 
square  buckles, — and  they  seemed  as  unfamiliar  as  the 
landscape.  She  dimpled  suddenly — in  spite  of  the  al 
most  gruesome  awe  that  was  upon  her,  and  that  constant 
sense  of  dreadful,  gnawing  guilt, — remembering  how  Alice 
had  felt  the  same  way  about  her  feet  in  the  immortal 
story — and  her  proposed  letter  of  introduction  with  its  ad 
dress,  "Feet — Alice,  Alice — Feet;  Alice's  Feet,  Hearthrug, 
near  the  Fender."  How  fortunate  it  was  that  she  and 
Cousin  Mary  both  had  "the  Talliaferro  feet,"  else  she 
would  have  had  to  wear  a  commonplace  pair  of  her  own 
brown  shoes  without  any  buckles.  Then,  with  a  startled 
glance  around  her,  she  let  the  little  half-smile  drop  from 
her  lips. 

And  now  Owen  was  coming  towards  her.  Her  heart 
seemed  to  turn  over  and  sit  down  hard  in  her  breast. 
This  was  her  simile  to  herself.  Her  heart  was  still  sitting 


WORLD'S-END  1ST 

there,  on  the  floor  of  her  spirit  so  to  speak,  when  he 
calmly  took  the  opposite  seat  from  which  she  had  with 
drawn  the  buckled  shoes,  and  laid  a  magazine  on  her  lap. 

"These  blessed  provincial  trains  make  too  much  racket 
for  any  talk,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I'm  going  to  see  what 
our  over-vitalised  ex-president  proposes  as  his  next  move. 
Are  you  quite  comfy?" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Phoebe. 

Owen  opened  a  Washington  paper,  and  became  absorbed 
in  its  contents. 

And  again  Phoebe  shared  the  emotions  of  Alice  when 
she  exclaimed,  "Curiouser  and  curiouser!"  It  simply 
could  not  be  true  that  the  big,  brown  figure  opposite,  so 
composedly  reading  the  daily  paper,  was  that  of  ...  her 
husband. 

She  sat  up  suddenly,  the  cushion  slipping  down  beside 
her.  Owen,  behind  the  opened  sheet  did  not  see  this 
movement — but  to  America  it  was  visible  in  the  little  mir 
ror,  and  she  turned  quickly,  her  pleasant,  puffy  lips  part 
ing  in  an  inquiring  smile  over  her  square  teeth  with  the 
little  gap  in  the  middle  which  caused  her  to  lisp  and 
through  which  her  pink  tongue  showed  when  she  talked, 
as  she  did  fluently  and  often.  Then  she  got  up  and  came 
over  to  Phoebe,  bending  across  the  arm.  of  the  seat  with 
her  little  swagger  of  importance. 

"You  want  anything,  Miss  Phoebe?" 

"No,  thank  you,  America." 

"Lemme  cut  yo'  book  for  you,  Miss  Phoebe." 

She  lifted  it  before  Phoebe  could  say  "yea  or  nay"  and, 
returning  to  her  place,  began  cutting  the  leaves  with  one 
of  her  hat-pins. 

"Curiouser  and  Curiouser"  became  the  whole  world 
and  its  contents  to  Phoebe.  That  was  Uncle  Burrell's 
niece  America,  who  had  been  born  at  Nelson's  Gift  and 
had  never  travelled  farther  than  Staunton  in  all  her  past 
days,  now  on  her  way  to  Europe  as  Mrs.  Owen  Randolph 's 
maid ! 

Mrs.  Owen  Randolph  herself  shivered  at  the  uncanny 
improbability  of  this  idea,  and  suddenly  belated  homesick 
ness  swept  over  her  in  a  heavy  wave.  What  were  they 
doing  now  at  dear  Nelson's  Gift?  Was  her  father  brood 
ing  apart  in  his  great-chair,  too  sad  even  for  work  on  his 
beloved  genealogy?  Had  Sally  already  gone  home,  seated 
in  lonely  state  in  the  victoria,  the  lace  dome  of  her  parasol 


188  WORLD'S-END 

haughtily  upheld,  and  that  hard,  repressed  look  on  her  sal 
low  face,  as  though  "An'  I  would  I  could  speak  upheaving 
truths."  Phoebe  shuddered  at  the  memory  of  that  bitter, 
implacable  face. 

"Was  Mary  perhaps  coaxing  dear  father  now  into  a  little 
cheerful  talk,  while  Aunt  Patty  and  Lily  dismantled  the 
pretty  altar,  and  the  Reverend  Henry  came  to  say  good 
bye,  with  his  surplice  and  stole  put  away  again  in  his  bag  ? 
"Would  Mary  sleep  tonight  in  her  own  little  bed  with  the 
blue  roses,  or  in  the  more  pompous  sumptuousness  of  the 
goose-down  bed  in  the  "guest  chamber"?  What  were  dear 
"Jimmy  Toots"  and  "King  Reddy"  and  the  grey  kitten 
doing?  She  choked  a  little  at  this  thought.  And  poor,  poor 
Wizzy,  was  he  balanced  on  the  seat  of  the  victoria  beside 
the  unsympathetic  Sally,  his  little,  crooked  back  making 
him  slip  miserably  with  the  motion?  .  .  .  All  those  roses 
that  Cousin  Mary  had  cut — they  would  be  dead  by  night- 
poor  roses!  And  she  had  cared  for  them  so  tenderly  all 
the  spring  and  summer.  There  were  not  vases  and  bowls 
enough  at  Nelson's  Gift  to  hold  such  heaps  of  roses.  .  .  . 
Oh,  it  was  all  strange,  strange  almost  past  endurance  1 
And  Owen  seemed  far,  far  way,  and  almost  forbidding,  lik<» 
an  indifferent  stranger,  sitting  there  so  absorbed  in  every « 
day  questions,  while  she  ranged  bewildered  through  confus 
ing  aisles  of  dread  novelty. 

As  if  she  had  spoken  her  thought  aloud,  he  put  down  tho 
paper  and  came  over  beside  her. 

' '  Homesick,  dear  ? "  he  asked,  and  laid  his  hand  on  hers. 

"A  ...  a  little,"  said  Phoebe  in  the  low  voice  that  he, 
like  Mary,  had  learnt  meant  inner  trouble. 

He  glanced  round  to  see  that  no  one  was  looking,  lifted 
the  little  hand  in  its  suede  glove  and  kissed  it  gently. 

"I  won't  let  it  last,  dear,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her. 
"We're  going  to  have  the  most  beautiful  times  together. 
This  is  the  most  trying  part  of  all.  Wait  until  I  show  you 
France  and  England.  Tante  Suzanne  will  want  to  keep  us 
in  Normandy  I  know,  but  I  think  England  wrill  be  better 
this  summer.  I've  a  friend  there  who  has  the  jolliest  little 
cottage  in  Norfolk.  Just  the  thing  for  us.  It 's  on  the  Nor* 
folk  Broads.  We  can  have  such  fun  trawling  and  shrimp 
ing.  Did  you  ever  shrimp  ? ' > 

"No, "said  Phoebe. 

"Do  you  like  sailing?" 

"I've  only  been  once  or  twice — but  I  wasn't  seasick." 


WOULD'S-END  189 

"Good!"  said  Owen.  "I'll  get  a  Una-boat — what  we 
call  a  'catboat'  in  America,  and  we  two  can  go  sailing  till 
you're  as  b?'own  as  a  nut !" 

He  talked  on,  telling  her  of  the  charming  places  that  she 
was  to  see  with  him,  of  the  lovable  eccentricities  of  Ma 
dame  de  Mauvigny,  of  his  English  friends,  who  would  be 
so  very  nice  to  her,  of  all  sorts  of  bright,  natural,  stirring 
events  to  come — until  her  sad  mood  was  quite  gone  and  a  , 
sort  of  tremulous,  glad  excitement  had  taken  its  place. 
After  all,  it  was  through  a  wonderful  fairy  tale  that  her 
life  now  lay.  She  would  grasp  what  sweetness  she  could 
with  both  feverish  little  hands.  Fate  had  been  cruel  and 
niggardly  to  her.  Now  she  seemed  sleeping,  drugged  by 
Owen's  power — all  that  could  be  niched  from  her  Avhile  she 
slept,  she,  Pl.'cebe,  would  clutch  greedily.  The  obstinacy, 
which  in  her  was  passionate  when  roused,  like  all  her  other 
emotions,  sprang  up  and  lit  her  eyes  and  cheeks.  She 
would  take  by  force  all,  all  that  life  had  wanted  to  cheat 
her  of, — with  strong  hands  she  would  take  it  and  hold  it 
fast.  She  would  learn  from  this  new,  full  existence,  open-, 
ing  so  dazzlingly  before  her — she  would  become  a  woman 
cultured,  clever,  wise,  charming.  She  would  make  him 
proud  of  her.  Now  she  was  just  a  little  Virginia  country 
girl,  whom  for  some  sweet,  mysterious  reason  this  wonder 
ful,  superior  being  had  elected  to  love — had  made  his  wife. 
She  would  rise  to  him — oh !  she  had  so  much  to  learn,  but 
she  would  be  tireless— she  would  strive  endlessly,  unweary- 
ingly  until  she  was  worthy  to  stand  beside  him  as  his  equal. 
No,  not  his  equal ;  no  one  in  all  the  world — man  or  woman 
— could  be  his  equal,  but  at  least  as  his  companion,  of 
whom  he  could  think  with  pride. 

Owen,  delighted  to  have  dispelled  her  sad  mood,  talked 
on  until  it  was  time  for  lunch. 

That,  her  first  meal  with  him  alone,  seemed  a  wonderful 
event  to  Phoebe.  He  made  her  drink  a  glass  of  light  wine, 
and  the  unusual  stimulus,  together  with  the  new  ambition 
and  eager  will  that  had  flared  up  within  her,  brought  such 
sparkling  life  into  her  face  that  those  nearby  could  not 
keep  their  eyes  away  from  its  flame-like  beauty.  For 
Phoebe  was  " journalicrc"  to  a  degree  in  her  looks,  and 
this,  her  wedding-day,  chanced  to  be  also  a  day  of  physical 
loveliness  with  her. 

"No  ...  no  ..."  she  told  herself,  the  wine  singing  its 
little  song  of  enchantment  in  her  young  veins,  ' '  I  will  not 


190  WORLD'S-END 

suffer  more  than  I  can  help.    I  will  be  as  happy  as  I  can." 

But  when  they  reached  New  York,  late  that  night,  and 
the  lift  had  whirled  her  up  to  the  fifteenth  floor  (Owen 
liked  to  be  high  in  good  air,  and  away  from  the  clatter  of 
the  streets),  when  she  stood  alone  in  the  false  artisticness 
of  the  little  sitting-room,  while  Owen  went  with  America 
and  the  bell-boy  to  see  that  the  former's  room  was  near 
enough  and  comfortable — dread  and  the  old  sick  terror 
closed  down  upon  her. 

"Poor  little  child.  .  .  .  Poor  little  child  ..."  thought 
Owen,  seeing  her  white,  set  face  from  the  corridor  before 
he  entered;  "what  torments  of  apprehension  must  be  rack 
ing  her.  ..." 

And  his  own  heart  contracted  painfully,  for  it  seemed  to 
him  frightful,  the  idea  of  possessing  a  woman  wholly, 
whose  heart — so  lately  all  another 's— must  even  in  its  sick 
rebound  from  desperate  love  to  desperate  loathing — shrink 
with  unspeakable  repulsion  from  the  thought  of  a  new 
lover's  embrace.  And  yet,  for  her  own  sake,  sooner  or 
later.  .  .  . 

And,  great  and  real  as  Phoebe's  dread  was,  it  had  only 
indirectly  to  do  with  the  thought  of  Richard's  having  been 
her  lover.  She  so  hated  him  that,  in  the  abstract,  the 
thought  of  belonging  wholly  to  another  was  not  so  awful 
to  her.  She  felt  that  to  belong  wholly  to  someone  else 
would  seal  her  away  as  in  a  tomb  from  that  terrible  past. 
No,  it  was  rather  that  all  power  of  such  emotion  in  her  had 
become  paralysed, — the  chords  of  passion  were  loosed  and 
numb.  Besides,  her  worship  for  Owen  demanded  striving 
and  sacrifice — not  amorous  exultation.  If  she  could  have 
given  her  life  for  his  she  would  have  leapt  toward 
the  knife,  or  over  the  abyss  with  a  little  laugh  of  joy. 
But  she  had  no  fire  of  love  to  give  him.  .  .  .  The  fire  of 
"love  seemed  to  her  a  lurid,  smoky  flame  coiling  darkly  in 
the  grim  cellar  of  life.  "What  she  longed  to  give  him  was 
adoration  in  the  sunlight — in  the  eyes  of  the  morning. 
She  thought  of  him  as  having  placed  a  crown  of  light  upon 
her  sorrowful,  disgraced  head.  To  have  bathed  his  feet 
with  her  tears  and  wiped  them  with  the  hairs  of  her 
liead  would  have  seemed  to  her  only  a  fitting  and  natural 
action. 

She  stood  there  now,  not  knowing  that  he  watched  her 
from  the  outer  corridor,  and  her  hands  went  piteously  to 
her  breast,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  door  of  the  next 


WORLD'S-END  191 

room  with  that  look  in  them  that  he  had  once  seen  before — 
the  look  of  a  hare  caught  suddenly  in  a  weighted  trap. 

He  entered  and,  going  up  to  her,  put  his  arm  about  her 
shoulders. 

"Dear  heart,  you  look  tired  to  death,"  he  said  in  a  mat 
ter-of-fact  voice.  ' '  I  think  if  you  go  straight  to  bed  it  will 
be  the  best  thing.  I'll  send  America  to  you  and  order  a 
light  supper  on  a  tray.  I'm  rather  done  myself.  "Wed 
dings  are  sad  amusements,  aren't  they?" 

He  pointed  to  an  opposite  door. 

' '  That  is  the  door  of  my  room.  If  you  want  anything  in 
the  night,  you've  only  to  call  me.  I'll  leave  it  open." 

And,  kissing  her  softly,  he  went  to  fetch  America. 

The  largeness  of  Phoebe's  nature  did  not  let  her  mis 
judge  him,  as  another  young  girl  might  have  done.  She 
did  not  attribute  his  action  to  a  cool  indifference,  but 
when  she  had  dismissed  America  for  the  night  she  sank  011 
her  knees  beside  the  glittering  hotel  bed,  and  thanked  God 
with  humble  awe  that  He  had  given  poor,  unworthy  her 
to  a  man  so  almost  incredibly  tender  and  considerate.  She 
knew  with  a  sure  instinct  that  he  had  divined  her  shrink 
ing  dread  and  the  confusion  of  all  her  senses,  and  he  had 
done  that  for  her.  His  love  was  not  a  selfish  appetite,  but 
a  great  deep  like  the  sea  which  could  wait  upon  the  moon 
of  joy.  Oh,  she  could  give  him  all,  all — some  day,  when 
she  was  not  so  utterly  weary  with  remorse  and  vain  regret 
• — when  guilt  was  washed  away  by  the  tears  of  blood  that 
her  heart  shed  every  hour.  .  .  .  And  she  crept  into  her 
lonely  bed,  broken  but  happy,  and  went  to  sleep  with  the 
ring  engraved  "kindliness"  against  her  lips. 

Next  morning  came  a  rap  at  her  door  and  his  voice  call 
ing: 

"Little  slug-a-bed!  Coffee's  here.  .  .  .  Slip  on  a  dress 
ing-gown  and  come  have  it  with  me  ! ' ' 

Flushing  and  paling  like  apple  flowers  in  a  wind,  she 
gave  a  hasty  brush  to  her  hair,  threw  on  the  little  cap  of  old 
Honiton  with  its  pink  rosettes  over  either  ear  (Mary  had 
really  provided  Phoebe  with  all  the  prettiest  part  of  her 
improvised  trousseau),  and,  slipping  into  the  pink 
gown  that  went  with  it,  slid  shyly  through  the  half-open 
door,  looking  like  a  figure  from  one  of  Morland's  paint 
ings. 

"What  a  little  eighteenth  century  picture  you  are  in 


192  WORLD'S-END 

that  cap,  Phoebe!"  said  Owen,  smiling.  "I  needn't  ask 
whether  you  rested  well." 

"Oh,  Cousin  Owen,  I  ..."  began  Phoebe,  and  then 
stopped  short,  abashed  by  the  delighted  little  whinny  of 
laughter  that  broke  from  Owen. 

"Really,  Mrs.  Randolph,"  he  said,  and  began  to  laugh 
again. 

"You  do  love  to  tease  me,  don't  you?"  said  Phoebe, 
laughing  herself.  "I  must  get  used  to  it,  I  suppose." 
And  she  sat  down  at  the  table  and  began  to  pour  coffee 
with  as  matronly  a  manner  as  she  could  assume. 

Owen,  watching  her  serious  face  and  the  little  dig« 
nified  airs  that  she  gave  her  pretty  hands,  thought  boy 
ishly: 

"Oh,  Lord!  .  .  .  What  a  painfully  bewitching  child. 
.  .  .  There's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool.  ...  I'm  in  for 
it  and  no  mistake " 

It  was  all  he  could  do  to  keep  from  going  round  to  her 
chair,  bending  back  her  head  with  its  stately  pose  of  mar 
ital  dignity,  and  kissing  her  full  and  warm  on  her  parted 
lips. 

"Do  you  take  one  lump,  or  two — or  none?"  asked 
Phoebe  sedately,  with  the  sugar-tongs  poised. 

"Half  a  lump,  please,  Cousin  Phoebe,"  said  he  as  se 
dately. 

Phoebe  flushed. 

' '  Don 't  tease  me  any  more  this  time, ' '  she  pleaded ;  "  I  '11 
really  try  never,  never  to  do  it  again." 

"How  are  you  going  to  manage  that  half  lump?"  he 
asked,  smiling. 

Phoebe  looked  anxiously  about. 

"If  there  was  a  nut-cracker  ..."  she  suggested  at 
length. 

Owen  laughed  and,  leaning  over,  took  a  lump  of  sugar 
and  broke  it  in  his  fingers. 

"There  was  one,  you  see,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her.  This 
light  nonsense  he  told  himself  was  the  best  thing;  she 
looked  puzzled  but  happy  under  it  like  a  child  that  feels 
safe  with  some  trusted  gro\vn-up  who  does  bewildering 
things  with  it. 

"Do  you  dress  quickly  or  slowly,  Mrs.  Randolph?"  he 
asked  as  he  drank  his  coffee. 

"Oh  .  .  .  quickly!"  said  she. 

Owen  looked  at  her  consideringly. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  193 

"Phoebe,"  said  he,  "don't  you  think  'Missis'  a  very 
ugly  title?" 

"  It  ...  it  isn  't  pretty  .  .  .  is  it  ? "  she  said  doubtfully. 

"Quite  the  reverse.  And  'husband'  has  always  seemed 
to  me  a  singularly  repellent  word.  Suppose  we  just  pre 
tend  we're  sweethearts  off  on  a  delightful,  scampish  sort 
of  adventure.  Take  off  that  dear  little  air  of  responsibility 
and  be  just  little  Phoebe  with  me." 

"I'll  be  anything1  you  want  me  to  be — anything!"  said 
the  girl,  with  suppressed  emotion. 

"You  dear!  You  'winsome,'  as  they  say  in  Devon, 
..."  said  Owen,  making  love  to  her  across  the  table  in 
spite  of  himself.  "You're  just  a  delicious  'honey-pot'  like 
Mary  of  Scotland." 

Phoebe  blushed  and  blushed,  hanging  her  head. 

Owen  watched  her  for  a  moment,  then  pulled  himself 
together  and  got  up. 

"Bo  vou  mind  if  I  smoke  a  pipe  in  here?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  please  do!"  said  Phoebe. 

Somehow  she  had  never  felt  quite  sure  that  she  was 
:really  a  married  person,  until  she  saw  him  lounging  com 
fortably  near  her  in  a  big  chair  with  his  old  "briar"  in  his 
Ynouth. 

"Does  it  really  taste  good?"  she  asked,  after  some  sec 
onds  of  thoughtful  contemplation. 

"Excellent — will  you  try  it?"  he  asked  gravely,  offering 
it  to  her.  The  gay  little  imp  that  had  so  long  lain  sick  in 
her  peeped  up  all  at  once,  and  she  put  forward  her  red 
mouth  and  took  a  whiff  or  two. 

"Oh!  How  nasty!  .  .  .  How  can  you!"  she  cried, 
coughing  and  scrubbing  her  lips  with  her  small  handker 
chief.  ' '  I  think  men 's  mouths  must  have  a  different  lining- 
from  ours. ' ' 

"They  have,"  said  he  seriously. 

"Have  they  really?" 

' '  Yes.  They  're  lined  with  asbestos,  and  vours  with  rose- 
leaves." 

"Oh,  Cousin  ...  I  mean  Given!"  exclaimed  Phoebe. 
"You  do  talk  such  nonsense  to  me." 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  asked  he,  laughing. 

' '  Why,  yes — I  do, ' '  said  Phoebe,  with  a  little  air  of  sur 
prise. 

"Then  if  you  like  it,  and  I  like  it,  there's  no  use  fa 
tiguing  our  brains  by  unnecessary  wisdom." 


194  WORLD'S-END 

Suddenly  Phoebe  rose  and  went  behind  his  chair.  He 
felt  her  arms  steal  round  his  neck  and  her  cheek  pressed 
against  his. 

' '  I  do  love  you ! ' '  she  whispered  softly. 

Owen  felt  like  crying  "Hands  off!  Fair  play!"  but  he 
only  lifted  the  arm  that  lay  on  his  shoulder  and,  kissing  it, 
got  up  with  a  long  stretch,  pipe  in  hand. 

"We  mustn't  be  too  lazy,"  he  said;  "there's  lots  we 
must  do  today. ' ' 

"Must  we?"  said  Phoebe,  looking  interestedly  at  the 
little  pink  bedroom  slipper  that  dangled  from  her  toe. 

"Mh-mh, "  said  Owen,  using  the  Virginia  affirmative,  so 
convenient  when  a  pipe  is  in  one's  mouth. 

He  took  a  note-book  from  his  pocket,  and  began  reading 
her  a  list,  standing  up  before  her. 

"Things  for  Phoebe.  A  steamer-coat,  light-wTeight.  A 
fur  coat  to  the  heels.  A  steamer  trunk.  A  beret  or  motor 
bonnet.  A  motor  veil.  A  foot-muff.  A  fitted  bag,  no — 
Mary  scratched  that  out.  We'll  wait  for  London.  Two 
pairs  of  Dent's  gloves.  Some  woollen  stockings.  A  warm 
dressing  gown  for  steamer." 

He  stopped  reading  and  looked  at  her.  She  was  twisting 
her  fingers  together  and  her  face  was  scarlet. 

Owen  really  had  some  psychic  powers.  Where  Phoebe 
was  concerned  he  was  a  finished  mind-reader.  He  threw 
the  little  book  on  the  table,  and  knelt  before  her,  a  hand 
on  either  arm  of  her  chair. 

"Phoebe,  my  sweet,"  he  said,  "are  you  going  to  be  a 
naughty  girl  and  hurt  me  with  false  pride  about  taking 
some  of  the  'worldly  goods'  I  endowed  you  with  yester 
day?" 

Phoebe's  hands  went  up  to  her  face. 

"If  ...  if  ...  only  I  had  something  of  my  own,"  she 
whispered  piteously. 

Owen  pulled  down  her  hands  and  held  them. 

"Look  at  me,  Phoebe,"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  came  slowly  up  full  of  tears. 

"You  said  for  the  second  time  just  now  that  you  love 
me." 

"Yes." 

"And  I  love  you." 

"Yes  .  .  .  thank  you,"  murmured  Phoebe. 

She  was  too  enchanting.  Owen  reached  up  and  caught 
her  to  his  breast  for  an  instant,  then  he  put  her  far  back 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  195 

in  the  chair  again.  It  was  exactly  the  embrace  that  a  child 
bestows  on  an  adored  doll,  but  Owen  did  not  at  all  regard 
Phoebe  as  a  doll. 

"Listen  to  me,  darling  baby  thing,"  he  said,  smiling  at 
her — a  little  confusedly,  had  she  known  the  different 
grades  of  masculine  smiles,  "I  stopped  your  father  from 
telling  you  the  other  day,  but  now  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
myself.  You  have  got  something  of  your  own,  dear  honey- 
pot  ;  I  settled  a  whole  hideous  building  on  you  when  you 
unselfishly  agreed  to  be  known  by  the  unlovely  appella 
tion  of  'Missis.'  You  have  exactly  ten  thousand  a  year 
of  your  very  own  to  buy  all  the  pins  necessary  for  your 
toilette.  "Will  3-011  be  reasonable  now?  I'll  present  you 
with  a  cheque-book  bought  with  your  own  money  the  mo 
ment  we  reach  England.  In  the  meantime  allow  me  the 
honour  of  being  your  banker.  All  these  things  in  Mary's 
list  (except  the  fur  coat — that  was  my  idea,  and  I  cling  to 
it  with  obstinacy),  all  those  things  you  can  present  to  your 
self  if  you  wish.  I've  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  them." 

"Ten  .  .  .  ten  .  .  .  thou  ..."  gasped  Phoebe,  regain 
ing  her  breath.  She  could  not  achieve  the  impossible  word, 
and  sat  gaping  at  him  like  a  lovely  Zany. 

"Ten  thousand,  dear  Lady  False  Pride.  If  I  were  to 
lose  all  my  fortune  at  one  fell  swoop  you  would  still  be 
above  want  and  could  help  me  out  if  you  were  generously 
inclined.  Come,  Phoebe  dear,  it's  customary  to  make  mar 
riage  settlements.  Your  father  approved.  You  say  you 
love  me,  yet  you  let  a  base  thing  like  money  come  between 
us  the  very  morning  after  our  marriage — our  first  morning 
as  man  and  wife. " 

He  reached  out  and  shook  her  gently  as  she  lay  curled 
in  a  soft,  little  heap,  her  face  hidden  again.  "Phoebe!  Are 
you  going  to  hurt  your  'man'  the  first  time  he's  in  your 
power?" 

Then  suddenly  her  fragrance  was  all  against  his  face — 
she  held  his  head  against  her  breast  with  straining  arms, 
and  he  heard  the  sweet,  deep  rhythm  of  her  heart  close  to 
his  ear. 

"No  .  .  .  no.  ...  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  the  whole 
round  world.  I'll  take  anything.  ...  I'll  take  a  million 
if  you  want  me  to.  .  .  ."  She  pushed  him  back  and  looked 
eagerly  at  him  "Give  me  two  million  if  you  like,"  she 
said,  "and  I'll  take  it  and  use  it  every  bit  up  !" 

' '  My  pretty !    My  winsome  ! ' '  cried  Owen  again,  between 


196  WORLD'S-END 

tears  and  laughing,  and  suddenly  he  pulled  down  her 
mouth  to  his.  But  scarcely  had  their  lips  touched  when 
he  sprang  up,  saying  gaily  if  a  little  thickly,  "Now,  let 
me  see  how  quickly  you  can  dress,  after  all  your  boasting. 
I'll  phone  Purley  to  fetch  the  motor.  Shall  we  go  for  the 
furs  first?" 

"Anywhere  .  .  .  anything  you  like,"  said  Phoebe  reck 
lessly,  so  rejoiced  was  she  to  see  that  she  had  not  hurt  him 
too  grievously,  and  was  forgiven. 

When  they  got  back  to  the  hotel  the  motor  looked  as 
though  it  had  returned  from  a  Christmas  shopping  tour. 
Owen  went  with  Phoebe  to  their  sitting-room,  and,  finding 
that  America  had  returned,  left  her  in  the  care  of  that 
young  person,  saying  that  he  should  be  gone  until  evening, 
as  he  had  some  business  that  must  be  attended  to. 

"Shall  we  have  dinner  here?"  he  asked.  "Or  shall  I 
take  you  out  somewhere.  It'll  be  rather  muggy  in  the 
cafes  I'm  afraid." 

"No  .  .  .  here,  please,"  said  Phoebe.  The  memory  of 
their  breakfast  together  still  thrilled  her  softly. 

"Very  well.  Purley  will  order  lunch  to  be  sent  up 
here.  You  can  talk  it  over  with  him.  Take  good  care  of 
her,  America." 

"I  cert'ny  will,  Mr.  Owen,"  said  America,  showing  the 
little  gap  in  her  teeth. 

As  he  closed  the  door  Phoebe  turned  to  the  young 
negress,  whom  she  was  very  fond  of.  ' '  Oh,  America, ' '  she 
said;  "hug  me!" 

"You  sweet,  sugar  lady!"  cried  the  other,  squeezing  her 
to  her  breast  with  enthusiasm. 

"Ain't  you  got  de  king  of  de  wor'l,  do?"  she  asked, 
holding  Phoebe  off  and  devouring  her  shy  face  with  her 
affectionate  ox-eyes. 

"Oh,  America,"  sighed  Phoebe,  sinking  down  and 
stretching  out  a  small  foot  for  her  ministrations.  "Please, 
when  you  say  your  prayers  tonight,  pray  that  nothing 
dreadful  will  happen.  I'm  too  happy.  It  makes  me 
afraid." 

XXVII 

"DEING  too  well  known  in  New  York  to  risk  having  his 
•*-*  wedding  journey  broken  into  by  reporters,  Owen  had 
registered  at  the  hotel  under  the  name  of  "Owen  Reed." 


WORLD'S-EXD  197 

As  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Owen  Reed,  he  and  Phoebe  also  figured  on 
the  passenger  list  of  the  Lorraine. 

The  crossing  was  uneventful,  the  passengers  uninterest 
ing.  Phoebe  went  in  to  dinner  every  day  with  a  fresh  knot 
of  lilies-of-the-valley  at  the  breast  of  the  white  chiffon 
frock.  This  attention  on  the  part  of  Owen  struck  her  as 
the  crowning  touch  of  all  his  lavish  goodness  to  her;  it 
gave  him  quite  away  as  a  bridegroom  to  the  astute  "trip 
pers,"  who  yet  were  fortunately  too  much  in  awe  of  his 
personality  to  venture  on  the  usual  pleasantries — even  at 
a  distance. 

"Mr.  Reed"  reminded  "Mrs.  Reed"  that  he  had  not 
taken  a  cablne  do  luxe  for  the  same  reason  that  prompted 
his  assumption  of  their  temporary  name.  It  would  have 
set  them  apart  as  targets  for  the  crassly  vulgar.  But 
Phoebe  loved  her  simple,  white  "shipshape"  cabin  in  any 
case,  and  the  strangely  sweet,  not  too  familiar  intimacy 
that  it  brought  with  her  "man" — as  he  had  once  so  thrill- 
ingly  called  himself. 

She  grew  to  look  for  the  delicious  impropriety  of  his 
advent  from  his  own  cabin  across  the  way — in  all  the  aban 
don  of  braces,  to  brush  his  thick  locks  before  her  little  mir 
ror — using  the  two  handleless  tortoise-shell  brushes,  which 
she  always  wondered  how  he  managed  to  wield  so  dex 
terously.  And  he,  while  shaving  every  morning,  would 
glimpse  the  sorrel  head,  in  its  cap  of  Honiton  with  the 
pink  rosettes,  peeping  out  from  her  door,  above  the  violet 
cloth  of  the  dressing  gown  that  he  had  chosen  for  her  the 
day  before  sailing ;  there  was  Phoebe  reconnoitring  to  reach 
the  bathroom. 

Sometimes  he  came  and  read  bits  to  her  from  Tolstoy's 
"Cossacks,"  which  he  was  enjoying  to  the  full  again  after 
a  six  years'  gap.  And  she  would  lie  on  the  little  couch 
under  the  port-holes  and,  gazing  at  his  face  as  he  read,  see 
him  as  Olyenin  and  wonder  how  Marianka  could  have  been 
so  cruel. 

The  arrival  at  Havre  was  a  new  delight.  The  strange 
tongue,  so  exciting  to  her  romantic  fancy;  the  train  with 
its  vertebras  of  small  foreign  carriages,  and  the  little  irasci 
ble  engine,  like  a  mechanical  toy ;  the  keen,  different  scent 
and  tang  of  the  alien  air — all  these  things  stirred  her  like 
a  strange  tale  told  at  twilight.  Then  came  the  rattling, 
bumping,  swaying  flight  to  Paris — the  fenceless  landscape 
queerly  striped  with  bands  of  culture,  at  last,  the  dark- 


198  WORLD'S-END 

gold  aura  of  Paris  on  the  night,  and  the  final  descent  in 
the  big  Gare  du  Nord. 

They  had  received  a  telegram  by  the  pilot. 

"Suis  a  Paris  pour  le  mois  de  Juillct.  Pauvre  Gaston 
souffrant.  Viens  sans  fautc  a  I'hotel  Mauvigny  rue  La 
Perouse.  Salutations  affectueuses.  Emkrasse  la  petite 
epouse  pour  Tantc  Suzanne." 

"The  old  dear!"  said  Owen  affectionately.  "I  had  no 
idea  she  would  be  in  Paris  this  time  of  year.  Uncle  Gas- 
ton's  gout,  of  course.  But  how  nice  for  you,  dear.  The 
hotel  Mauvigny  is  one  of  the  most  charming  houses  in 
Paris.  Tante  Suzanne  will  spoil  you  even  more  than  I've 
done." 

"That  would  be  hard  to  do,"  said  Phoebe,  smiling  at 
him. 

Louis,  the  ancient  footman,  came  trotting  towards  them, 
touching  his  hat  like  a  wound-up  toy  as  he  advanced.  He 
had  a  special  culte  for  Owen. 

"Monsieur  Randolph  .  .  .  Madame  ..."  he  panted, 
wreathed  in  smiles.  "Madame  la  Comtesse  attend  dans 
I'auto." 

"Bien,  Louis.  Comment  ga  va?"  said  Owen,  shaking  his 
old  hand. 

"Bien,  M'sieu.  Bien,  M'sieu.  Tres  bicn,"  galloped 
Louis;  then  he  seemed  to  gather  the  faquins  together  by 
a  lift  of  his  eyebrfews.  They  came  in  a  bunch,  trundling 
bags  and  boxes.  America  and  Purley  followed  in  the  rear. 
In  a  few  minutes  Owren  had  assisted  Phoebe  into  the  motor 
and  the  arms  of  Tante  Suzanne. 

The  motor  had  a  little  electric  rose-globed  light  in  its 
roof,  and  was  lined  with  a  pale,  pinkish  cloth.  "When 
Phoebe  emerged  from  that  voluminous  and  hearty  embrace 
she  looked  upon  the  most  amazing  old  lady  possible  to  con 
ceive. 

Madame  de  Mauvigny  was  seventy  if  she  was  a  day.  She 
was  attired  in  a  marvellous  confection  of  Irish  lace  and 
embroidery  over  bright  rose-colour.  On  her  elaborate 
white  wig,  as  luxurious  as  the  "crinierc"  of  a  French  war 
horse  in  the  time  of  Roland,  wras  a  basket  hat  composed 
entirely  of  pink  rose-buds,  and  her  large,  plump  hands 
were  covered  by  rose-coloured  suede  gloves.  As  Phoebe 
bent  forward  to  receive  her  kiss  she  noticed  the  still  natu- 


WOKLD'S-END  199 

rally  jet-black  eyebrows,  not  unlike  Owen's,  over  vivacious 
golden  eyes  full  of  sparkling  lights. 

"Ida,  petite,"  cried  the  old  lady,  holding  Phoebe  off  in 
her  strong1,  vigorous  hands.  "You  are  charming!  "What  is 
she  like,  eh '}  A  Moreland?  A  Romney?  Ha!  C'cst  Qa! 
— she  is  like  the  famous  Emma.  Perhaps  not  quite  so 
beautiful — but  more  raffince.  More  intelligent,  pour  sur! 
Jc  t'aimc  dcja,  ma  mignonne.  Kiss  me  queek!"  wound  up 
Tante  Suzanne,  who  had  really  acquired  an  unconscious 
French  accent  in  speaking  English  during  her  seven  and 
thirty  years'  sojourn  in  France. 

"Forgive  my  hodge-podge  of  French  and  English,  dear 
child,"  she  continued  the  next  moment.  "My  language  is 
piebald,  but  my  meaning  is  solid  gold.  .  .  .  like  my  heart. 
Eh,  Owen,  you  solemn  rascal?" 

"Your  heart,"  said  Owen,  kissing  a  pink  glove,  "is  above 
rubies." 

Tante  Suzanne  chuckled  pleasedly. 

"Is  that  the  way  he  won  you,  my  pigeon?"  she  asked 
Phoebe.  "With  that  'honey  tongue'  of  his?— Eh!"  she 
broke  off  with  a  sigh  that  burst  from  her  all  in  a  piece, 
like  a  little  puff  through  a  broken  pane.  "Qu'ils  sont 
hcurcux,  Ics  amourciix!  I  remember  so  well  my  wedding 
journey  with  ce  pauvre  Gaston.  "We  went  over  the  Bren 
ner  pass  in  a  diligence  for  sheer  romance.  It  smelt  abom 
inably  musty  and  stable-y — je  me  souviens — but  it  might 
have  been  Cinderella's  coach  for  all  we  knew.  He  lifted 
me  down  whe-n  we  arrived,  and  carried  me  over  the  thresh 
old  like  a  Roman  bridegroom.  Poor  dear! — his  gout 
wouldn't  let  him  lift  a  kitten  now.  Have  you  ever  had 
symptoms  of  gout,  my  dear  boy  1 ' ' 

"No,  dear  auntie,"  said  Owen,  laughing. 

"Ah,  Jes  amourcux,  les  amourcux  ..."  sighed  the  old 
lady  again,  and  she  went  off  into  a  sort  of  dream  for  a  mo 
ment  or  two. 

Then  she  roused,  preened  herself,  adjusted  her  bangles, 
her  hat,  her  gloves,  and  poured  forth  volleys  of  questions 
about  everyone  and  everything  "at  home,"  as  she  still 
called  Virginia. 

While  Owen  answered  her  Phoebe  was  gazing  out  at  the 
dark,  summer  beauty  of  the  horse-chestnuts  in  the  Champs 
Elysees  and  the  curving  lines  of  electric  lights  sparkling  as 
for  a  fete.  The  street  was  nearly  empty  at  this  hour.  A 
shower  had  just  passed,  bringing  out  that  odour  of 


200  WORLD'S-END 

drenched  foliage  and  pavement  so  peculiar  to  Paris.  More 
than  ever  the  girl  seemed  to  herself  to  be  gliding  through 
a  wonderful  dream. 

"Eh,  my  turtle-doves,"  said  Tante  Suzanne,  with  a  sud 
den  note  of  deprecation  in  her  voice.  "I  have  excuses  to 
make  you.  Je  suis  desolee  mais  que  fairef  Diana  Wrex- 
borough  descended  on  me  yesterday  with  two  children,  a 
bonne  and  a  tutor.  She's  on  the  way  to  her  sister  in 
Bretagne,  where  she'll  leave  them  all  for  the  rest  of  the 
summer — and  only  stops  two  days  with  us.  But  the  hotel 
Mauvigny  is  not  elastic.  You,  my  poor  dears,  will  have  to 
put  up  with  one  room  between  you  and  a  dressing-room. 
Still,  that  won't  be  such  a  desolating  hardship  for  nouveau- 
maries,  eh?"  she  ended,  and  tweaked  Phoebe's  ear  with  a 
very  roguish  smile. 

The  girl  flared  under  her  words  and  touch  like  a  blown 
coal.  Tante  Suzanne  lifted  amused  eyebrows  and  glanced 
at  Owen  for  sympathetic  enjoyment  of  his  bride's  nai've 
confusion.  He  was  gazing  out  of  the  window  with  what 
she  thought  an  expression  peculiar  under  the  circum 
stances. 

Suddenly,  in  her  thought,  she  struck  as  it  were  her  astral 
forehead.  Light  had  glimmered  in  her  Gallicised  mind. 
"Tiens!"  said  she  to  herself.  "I  had  completely  forgotten 
how  touchy  is  the  modesty  of  Americans! — Eh,  bon  Dieu! 
One  mustn't  mention  coats  to  Potiphar's  wife,  nor  so  much 
as  a  sofa  cushion  to  an  American  bride!" 

Thus  reflecting,  she  deftly  changed  the  subject. 

"Diana  is  very  keen  to  know  your  bride,"  she  said  to 
Owen. 

"I've  told  you  about  her,  Phoebe,"  said  Owen,  coming 
to  the  -rescue.  "The  Duchess  of  Wrexborough.  You'll 
love  each  other,  I  think." 

"Pour  sur,"  said  Tante  Suzanne,  nodding.  "And  the 
child  couldn't  have  a  better  influence  than  Diana." 

The  Duchess  of  Wrexborough  came  forward  to  meet 
them  when  they  entered  the  salon,  rising  slight  and  im 
mensely  tall  in  her  white  tea-gown.  Her  little  deer-head, 
so  unmistakably  and  beautifully  English,  with  its  short 
nose  and  up-curving  Greek  chin  and  mouth,  was  crowned 
by  a  great  braid  of  ink-black  hair,  and  from  under 
straight  brows,  that  met  like  those  sung  by  Theocritus, 
looked  eyes  as  softly  clear  and  changeful  as  blue  opals. 

"How  very  nice  to  see  you  again!"  she  said  to  Owen. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  201 

Then,  taking  Phoebe's  hands  in  both  hers,  she  looked  smil 
ing  into  her  eyes.  "I  have  so  wanted  to  know  you,"  she 
said  in  her  lovely  low  voice.  "Owen  and  I  have  been  such 
friends  for  over  twenty  years  .  .  .  ever  since  my  nursery 
days.  ...  I  hope  you'll  let  me  be  fond  of  you,  too." 

"Oh  .  .  .  thank  you ! ' '  said  Phoebe  in  her  pretty  way, 
and  her  heart  rushed  into  her  eyes. 

"She's  a  perfect  sweet!"  said  Diana  Wrexborough, 
turning  to  Owen,  and  drawing  Phoebe  to  her  side. 

Surely,  surely,  this  was  a  dream!  She  was  certainly 
just  another  Alice  in  Wonderland,  and  presently  this  beau 
tiful  Duchess  would  turn  sharply  and  say,  "Off  with  her 
head!" 

"Take  off  your  hat,  clierie,  and  let  us  see  you  better," 
said  Tante  Suzanne.  "Take  off  her  hat,  Owen." 

Phoebe  handed  him  the  little  toque,  and  the  shaded  can 
dle-light  shone  on  her  beautiful  forehead. 

"Don't  you  think  she's  very  like  the  Romney  of  Emma 
Hamilton  with  the  dog  in  her  arms,  Diana?"  asked  the  old 
lady,  just  touching  Phoebe's  hair  with  her  pink-gloved 
hand.  "N'cst-cc-pas  cpatant?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  very,"  said  Diana,  "only  she's  so  much  finer. 
I  mean  in  the  French  sense  .  .  .  raffince.  ..." 

"Just  what  I  said!"  cried  Tante  Suzanne  triumphantly. 

Owen,  who,  as  usual,  divined  correctly  that  Phoebe  was 
beginning  to  feel  a  little  as  though  she  were  an  objet  d'art 
under  amiable  but  critical  consideration,  now  remarked 
that  he  thought  the  most  beautiful  sight  in  the  world 
would  be  that  of  food — as  he  and  Phoebe  had  had  nothing 
since  a  glass  of  wine  and  some  sandwiches  at  four  o'clock. 

"Jo  suis  line  vicillc  denatured"  exclaimed  Madame  de 
Mauvigny  tragically.  "You  poor  children!  Come  with 
me  at  once !  All  is  prepared.  And  you,  too,  Diana.  We 
can  sit  by  and  see  the  love-birds  eat." 

That  night,  when  she  was  alone,  at  last,  in  the  "one  room 
between  you,"  Phoebe  stood  gazing  at  the  lovely  old  Louis- 
Quinze  bed,  as  though  it  were  some  powerful  sorcerer  in 
disguise  and  had  already  cast  a  trancing  spell  upon  her. 

Below  in  the  quiet  street  she  heard  a  chauffeur's  cry  of 
"Porte!"  The  great  doors  of  the  porte-cochere  opened 
and  clanged  again.  The  dull  rumble  of  a  motor  entering 
jarred  through  the  building.  It  was  Tante  Suzanne's 
eldest  son.  Jack  de  Mauvigny,  returning  from  a  house 
party  at  Versailles.  Then  she  heard  a  new  voice  speaking 


202  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

in  French  and  the  low,  lonely  voice  of  Diana  answering. 
Tante  Suzanne's  vigorous  laugh  rang  out.  Then  Owen 
spoke.  The  voices  came  nearer,  died  away.  All  was  quiet 
in  the  strange,  beautiful  house  that  seemed  built  of  such 
stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of.  ... 

The  afternoon  following  Phoebe's  arrival  Tante  Suzanne 
and  Diana  spent  the  most  delightful  hours  ransacking  Paris 
for  pretty  things  in  which  to  array  her.  They  were  ex 
actly  like  two  eager  children  over  a  doll  which  they  have 
been  given  carte  blanche  to  dress. 

At  last  Owen  said,  with  a  masculine  note  in  his  voice  not 
to  be  gainsaid  by  females  who  had  ' '  let  him  in ' '  for  several 
thousand  pounds'  worth  of  kickshaws,  "I  am  going  to  take 
Phoebe  off  alone,  and  get  her  something  that  I  myself 
choose,  ~by  myself!" 

The  replete  shopperesses  smiled  indulgently,  and,  hailing 
a  taxi,  Owen  handed  the  girl  in,  sprang  in  after  her,  and 
called  an  address  to  the  chauffeur  that  took  them  far  into 
the  old  quarter  of  the  town. 

As  they  got  away  from  the  more  crowded  thorough 
fares  he  put  his  hat  on  his  knees,  crossed  his  hands  on  his 
stick  and,  leaning  his  chin  on  them,  smiled  down  at  as 
much  of  her  profile  as  her  hat  left  visible. 

"Do  you  mind  my  pouncing  on  you  and  taking  you  off 
all  for  myself  like  a  greedy  ogre  ? "  he  asked. 

Phoebe  shook  her  head  vehemently — but  she  did  not  look 
at  him,  and  sat  still  as  a  mouse,  her  lashes  curving  down 
ward. 

Owen  bent  and  glanced  under  the  brim  of  the  big  black 
hat  that  Diana  had  just  chosen  for  her. 

' '  Has  the  cat  stolen  your  tongue,  as  they  say  to  chil 
dren?" 

Phoebe  shook  her  head  again,  overcome  with  an  im 
measurable  shyness  at  being  thus  alone  with  him  for  the 
first  time  on  that  especial  day. 

"You'll  have  to  show  me,  or  I  can't  believe  you,"  he 
teased. 

Phoebe  smiled  in  spite  of  herself,  and  a  little  tip  of  coral 
stole  out  between  her,  pretty  teeth. 

He  caught  her  to  his  side. 

"My  winsome!    My  wife.  .  .  . "  he  whispered. 

So  does  the  full  possession  of  a  loved  woman  work  on 
some  men — the  finest — changing  discreeter  emotion  into 
\ 


WORLD'S-EXD 

the  extravagant  magic  of  un weighed  passion  and  deep,  al 
most  melancholy  tenderness.  And  Phoebe  was  of  Helen's 
brood;  her  kiss  remained  like  a  sweet,  clinging  fire  that 
many  waters  of  rationality  could  not  drown.  Even  in  far- 
off  China  Richard  recalled  sometimes  with  an  angry  hun 
ger  the  wild  nectar  that  had  lain  on  her  lips  that  night  of 
May. 

She  crouched  now,  quivering  in  Owen's  clasp,  one  dread 
ful  question  burning  through  her.  Was  she  then  shame 
less,  utterly  shameless?  ...  A  creature  without  moral 
sense,  without  sense  of  decency  .  .  .  that  she  should  feel 
this  timorous,  sweet  delight  under  his  touch  and  words? 
.  .  .  "Oli,  but  this  is  different!"  she  pleaded  to  her  own 
thrilled,  accusing  heart,  "I  thought  that  other  was  love 
.  .  .  but  this  .  .  .  this  is  love ! ' '  But  her  heart  ruthlessly 
answered  ' '  Shameless !  Shameless ! ' ' 

Yet  Phoebe  was  of  Helen's,  not  Phryne's,  strain.  Owen 
held  her,  gently  now,  a  little  longer;  then,  lifting  one  of 
her  hands,  kissed  it  and  set  her  free. 

A  pang  of  unspeakable  bitterness,  rank  and  envenomed, 
had  shot  through  him  as  lie  remembered  that  the  slight 
form  yielding  so  softly  against  his  side  had  been  in  the  em 
brace  of  another  man.  To  have  faced  that  fact  with  affec 
tionate  compassion  was  one  thing;  to  realise  it  in  the 
midst  of  a  throe  of  passionate  love  was  another.  She  was 
now  his  own,  his  wife — all  the  desire  of  his  manhood — 
quintessentially  refined  by  years  of  abstinence  from  the 
lighter  toys  of  love — yearned  towards  her.  And  yet  .  .  . 
and  yet  ...  of  that  lovely  body  would  be  born  the  child 
of  another  man.  .  .  . 

When  the  chauffeur  stopped  at  the  address  that  he  had 
given  he  said: 

"Would  you  mind  if  we  put  off  my  present  till  tomor 
row?  ...  I  feel  suddenly  so  sick  of  shops.  .  .  .  Suppose 
we  go  out  to  Versailles  and  have  dinner  there?  ...  I'll 
send  Tante  Suzanne  a  petit  bleu." 

"Oh,  I'd  love  not  to  shop  any  more!"  cried  Phoebe 
eagerly.  ' '  I  'd  much  rather  go  somewhere  with  you. ' ' 

That  evening  Diana  said,  as  they  exchanged  good-nights : 
"When  all  the  pretty  things  we  chose  today  are  finished, 
mind  you  both  come  to  me  in  England!  I'm  going  to  shut 
Wrexborough  House  next  week.  You're  to  come  to  me  in 
the  country." 

"At  Gaunt 's  Hill  or  Mivvern?"  asked  Owen. 


204  WORLD'S-END 

"Oh,  Miwern,  of  course.    The  Thames  is  my  joy  at  this 
season. ' ' 


XXVIII 

J  ONDON  rather  overwhelmed  Phoebe  at  first  sight,  it 
•*-J  was  so  wonderfully  grim  and  mysterious  after  Paris, 
but  its  use  of  a  language  she  could  understand  unsealed 
once  more  the  vials  of  America's  volubility,  which  the 
French  tongue  had  somewhat  stayed. 

They  sat  informally  together  in  Phoebe's  private  sitting- 
room  at  the  Eitz,  and  partook  genially  of  pigeon  pie.  The 
servant  who  brought  it  had  been  dismissed  by  Phoebe,  who 
wanted  to  relieve  her  surcharged  feelings  by  personal  chat 
ter  with  that  brown  bit  of  home,  America  Vespuccia  Byrd. 

They  were  stopping  in  town  overnight,  on  their  way  to 
Miwern,  as  Owen  had  to  attend  to  several  matters. 

Meanwhile  Phoebe  and  America  discussed  the  pigeon  pie. 

"Oh,  America,"  cried  Phoebe.  "Do  you  know  we're 
in  England,  and  this  is  'pigeon-pasty'  we  are  eating?  You 
might  think  it  wras  pigeon  pie  from  its  looks,  but  don't  for 
get  it's  really  'pigeon-pasty,'  America." 

"Tases  jes'  like  good  ole  Faginia  pigeon-pie  tuh  me," 
announced  America,  lisping  more  than  ever  from  sheer 
excitement. 

"And  that  sky  up  there,"  continued  her  mistress,  wav 
ing  her  fork,  "is  London  sky,  America." 

America  goggled  her  large  eyes  at  it. 

"It's  dee  spit  image  uv  Faginia  sky,  Miss  Phoebe,"  said 
she,  chewing  genteelly,  with  her  puffy  lips  pursed  together. 
Then  she  added: 

"Miss  Phoebe,  is  England  in  London?" 

"No,  London's  in  England." 

"What's  England  in,  Miss  Phoebe?" 

"In  the  sea,"  said  Phoebe,  laughing. 

"Great  day  in  dee  mawnin!"  cried  America,  "s'posin' 
de  sea  ris  in  de  night  and  kivvered  it  an'  we-all  like  dat 
red-sea  done  Pha-ry-oh?  .  .  .  "What  you  tell  me  dat  fuh, 
Miss  Phoebe?  I  ain't  goin'  res'  easy  in  my  bed  tonight, 
thinkin '  of  how  we 's  right  in  dee  sea.  But  tain 't  red,  dat 's 
one  comfort.  I  seed  'miff  of  it  comin'  over  to  know  dat." 

Phoebe  was  too  much  bent  on  her  owTn  thoughts  to  follow 
her  closely.  She  held  a  nectarine  towards  America. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  205 

"This,"  slie  said,  "is  a  nectarine — an  English  nectarine. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  nectarine  before,  America?  .  .  .  Isn't 
it  curious?" 

America  eyed  it  cynically.  She  was  determined  not  to 
show  too  much  astonishment  over  things  no  matter  how  un 
usual. 

"  Jes'  looks  tuh  me  like  a  sorter  stark-nekkid  peach,  Miss 
Phoebe." 

"Oh,  you  funny  thing!  "What  do  you  mean  by  stark 
nekkid?" 

"Well,  sometimes  hit  means  one  thing  an'  sometimes 
another.  Dis  time  hit  means  all  dee  fuzz  is  off 'n  dat  nec- 
teril — or  whatever  you  calls  it,  an'  hit  looks  percisely  like 
a  peach  what's  done  take  off  its  flannel  drawers." 

Phoebe  got  up  and  hugged  the  woolly  head. 

"America!"  she  cried.  "If  I  hadn't  brought  you  I'd 
have  died  of  homesickness !  .  .  .  You're  such  a  comfort, 
America  !  And,  oh  !  you  're  so  funny ! ' ' 

"I  likes  bein'  funny  when  I  means  to  be,"  said  Amer 
ica  shrewdly,  "but  sometimes  Mr.  Owen  he  larfs  at  me 
when  I  ain't  thinkin'  of  funniness.  Dat  sho  is  upsetting." 

"You  mustn't  mind,  Rikky.    He  laughs  at  me,  too." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  mindin',"  said  America;  "I'm  jus'  notie- 
in'." 

Phoebe  amused  Owen,  on  their  way  to  the  play,  by  a 
mimicked  account  of  this  conversation.  One  of  her  reac 
tions  had  come  over  her,  and  she  had  again  determined  to 
be  "just  as  happy  as  she  could." 

As  she  was  Helen's  kin,  Owen's  refrain  from  passionate 
love-making  piqued  while  it  gave  her  relief  from  her  self- 
torturing  thoughts.  Now  she  could  love  him  secretly,  with 
out  that  torn  feeling  of  guilt.  She  could  wear  the  red  rose 
of  love  with  a  difference.  That  evening  he  gave  her  a  string 
of  lovely  pearls.  The  child  looked  exquisite  with  those 
moony  globules  lying  at  the  rise  of  her  white  breast,  but, 
as  the  thought  of  what  they  symbolised  came  to  him,  he 
winced  like  a  man  struck  upon  a  green  wound. 

It  was  in  these  days  that  he  faced  his  feeling  towards 
Richard  and  knew  it  to  be  hatred;  knew  that  in  some 
moods  there  would  be  danger  for  them  both,  should  he 
come  suddenly  on  Richard.  He  felt  the  strength  of  his 
own  hands  to  be  a  terrible  force  in  those  moments,  for  he 
imagined  them  closing  round  a  human  throat — pressing 
and  pressing — till  the  eyes  set  and  the  tongue  protruded. 


206  WORLD'S-END 

"When  he  looked  at  Phoebe,  and  felt  his  love  for  her  rise 
at  flood  in  his  heart,  he  knew  that  he  was  first  primeval 
man,  and  then,  far,  far  removed,  a  civilised  and  philosophic 
being.  What  in  those  moments  he  craved,  even  more  than 
he  craved  the  contact  of  her  sweet  body,  was  the  feel  of 
his  enemy's  flesh  between  his  fingers.  How  was  he  to  con 
trol,  without  appearing  to  do  so,  the  naked  savage  in  him, 
were  Richard  to  come  suddenly  again  into  their  life  to 
gether,  as  he  might  do  at  any  moment?  For,  capricious 
as  was  Richard's  nature,  Owen  did  not  believe  that  the 
East  would  long  hold  him.  How  was  he  to  act  with  the 
coolness  that,  for  Phoebe's  own  sake,  the  future  demanded 
of  him  ?  Any  marked,  or  even  noticeable,  difference  in  his 
manner  to  Richard  might  light  a  fuse  that  would  hoist 
their  house  of  secrets  as  high  as  Arcturus. 

He  grew  thin  in  these  days.  Like  poor  Sally,  he  ' '  eat  his 
heart,"  and  its  mangled  nerves  made  all  his  life  one  ache. 

They  arrived  at  the  country  station  about  six  o'clock  the 
next  afternoon,  and  got  into  the  musty  fly  which  Purley 
had  in  waiting.  It  struck  Phoebe  as  very  odd  indeed  that 
a  duchess  shouldn't  send  to  fetch  her  guests  from  the  sta 
tion.  It  seemed  on  the  same  line  as  saying  plain  "Ma'am" 
and  "Sir"  to  the  sovereigns  of  England.  Then  Owen  re 
minded  her  that  they  had  been  unable  to  say  by  what  train 
they  would  arrive. 

Another  slight  shock  awaited  her  at  the  house.  Diana 
was  not  there  to  receive  her. 

Mivvern  was  not  an  old  house,  but  it  was  very  charming 
and  friendly,  and  Diana  called  it  her  "print- frock  place." 
She  said  that  one  always  had  one's  happiest  times  in  a 
print-frock,  and  that  being  at  Gaunt 's  Hill  was  like  wear 
ing  a  peeress's  robe  of  velvet,  and  ermine,  at  a  Coronation, 
with  a  stufty  coronet  tugging  at  one's  hair. 

From  the  windows  of  her  bedroom  Phoebe  saw  the  suave, 
plushy  lawns  slanting  to  the  river  that  shook  a  little  sequin 
of  light  here  and  there  between  its  fringing  trees:  a  huge 
Lebanon  cedar,  from  under  which  some  servants  were 
clearing  away  the  tea  things;  and  far,  and  faint  on  the 
summer  air,  like  an  old  wash  drawing,  the  dome  of  St. 
Paul's  and  the  brownish-mauve  haze  formed  by  the  breath 
of  the  huge  town. 

"Oh,  America,"  sighed  she,  thinking  of  Diana's  absence. 
"Aren't  English  customs  strange?" 


WORLD'S-EATD  207 

"Gawd,  lie  knows  cley  is,  as  de  ole  'ooman  said  when 
she  found  a  pants  button  in  her  hard-b'iled  aigg, "  re 
sponded  Ai.ierica  feelingly — for  she  was  quick-witted  and 
knew  exactly  to  what  Phoebe  alluded.  "Dee  duchess  lady, 
she  lets  you  conic  up  in  a  ole  hack  all  gaumed  with  musk 
(America  meant  "must"),  and  den  she  ain't  hyuh  to  say 
'howdy'!" 

"Of  course,  it's  just  English,  Rikky." 

"Faginia's  good  'miff  fo'  me,"  sniffed  America. 

Another  tap  came  at  the  door. 

Phoebe,  who  was  by  this  time  in  stays  and  petticoat,  ran 
to  open  the  door  herself,  thinking  that  this  must  at  last  be 
Diana. 

She  was  faced  by  a  tall,  smiling  lady  with  a  fleece  of 
crinkled  lint-white  locks  dressed  a  la  Princesse  de  Galles, 
who  came  promptly  in,  saying  cheerfully: 

"How  d'ye  do,  Mrs.  Randolph?  I'm  Francie  Bemyss. 
Diana  told  me  to  look  after  you.  What  darling  little  stays ! 
.  .  .  Diana  said  she  bought  half  Paris  for  you.  I  do  so 
adore  looking  at  frillies,  don't  you?  .  .  .  Have  you  had 
some  tea?  Oh,  what  perfectly  exquy  hair!" 

Phoebe,  much  embarrassed  at  thus  being  found  in  such 
frank  disarray  by  an  entire  stranger,  herself  elaborately 
costumed,  began  to  twist  up  her  loose  locks,  blushing  and 
smiling.  But  Lady  Frances  stayed  her  hand. 

"Do  leave  it  down!"  she  pleaded.  "I  shall  tell  them 
your  nickname  must  be  'Godiva.'  We're  all  nicknamed. 
Bemyss,  my  husband,  you  know,  is  'The  Ancestor.'  I'm 
'  The  Lamb '  because  my  hair  is  so  disgustingly  like  a  fleece. 
Di  is  called  'IIoppo,'  short  for  'Hop-o'-my-thumb,'  you 
know,  because  she's  such  a  darling  bean-pole.  Wrex- 
borough  is  'Homer,'  because  he's  always  pulling  out 
some  political  plum  and  saying  'See  what  a  great  man  am 
I.'  Now  you'll  be  'Godiva.'  I  am  so  pleased  to  have  got 
the  first  chance  at  you !  I  'in  rather  a  dab  at  nicknames. 
But  you  haven't  said  whether  you've  had  tea?" 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you  .  .  .  please  ...  it's  so  late,"  said 
Phoebe. 

"It  is  rather  late,"  admitted  her  visitor.  Then  she 
seemed  deliciously  overcome  by  America,  whom  she  sud 
denly  glimpsed  for  the  first  time. 

"Oh,  what  a  darling  nigger!"  she  cried.  "How  dread 
fully  chic  of  you  to  bring  a  nigger  with  you.  She's  from 
the  States,  of  course?" 


208  WORLD'S-END 

Phoebe,  glancing  nervously  at  America,  who  would 
rather  far  have  been  called  a  leper  than  a  nigger,  said 
timidly : 

"We  call  them  'colored  people'  at  home." 

"Oh,  do  you?  How  sweetly  quaint.  But  there's  not  a 
ray  of  colour  about  her.  She's  as  brown  as  my  boot,"  and 
she  thrust  out  her  smartly  shod  foot  to  let  Phoebe  see  how 
sound  was  the  comparison. 

America,  glowering  like  an  offended  queen  of  the  Nu 
bians,  snatched  up  a  fluff  of  lingerie  from  the  bed  as 
though  she  were  angrily  plucking  a  great  fowl,  and  disap 
peared  into  the  drawing-room. 

"I'm  afraid  you've  hurt  her  feelings,"  said  Phoebe 
anxiously.  "She's  a  dear  soul,  but  her  temper's  very 
cranky. ' ' 

"Fancy  now!"  cried  Lady  Frances,  opening  her  milk- 
blue  eyes.  "Just  fancy  a  nigger's  minding  being  called 
a  nigger.  Ah!  .  .  .  Here's  Di. "  She  fluttered  out  as 
Diana  entered,  and  the  latter  came  and  took  Phoebe  in  her 
arms. 

"You  look  worried,  dear,"  she  said.  "lias  Frances  been, 
talking  you  to  death?" 

"N-no, "  hesitated  Phoebe.  "She  was  very  nice  .  .  . 
only  ...  it's  poor  Rikky — she  docs  so  hate  being  called  a 
nigger!" 

(Phoebe  was  already  picking  up  unconsciously  the  Eng 
lish  intonations.  She  absorbed  things  like  a  little  sponge 
without  knowing  it.) 

"Poor  soul!  Does  she?"  asked  Diana,  surprised  in  her 
turn.  "Why,  I  thought  they  called  themselves  niggers? 
They  do  in  their  songs,  at  any  rate  .  .  .  'Dere  was  an  old 
nigger  and  his  name  was  Uncle  Ned.'  ..." 

And  she  hummed  the  line  of  the  old  plantation  song.  As 
she  ended  America's  voice  came  shrill  and  clear  from  the 
dressing-room : 

"Yes,  ma'am,  Mrs.  Duchess,  ma'am — we  calls  ourselfs 
niggers  sometimes,  but  we  don't  like  other  folks  to  do  it. 
Hit's  like  whoppin'  yo'  own  chile.  You  kin  bust  him  open 
ef  you  likes,  but  you  don 't  want  nobody  else  to  ez  much  ez 
smack  him!" 

Diana  rocked  with  silent  laughter. 

"I  ...  I  ...  feel  just  that  way  about  Gerald,"  she 
murmured  when  she  could  speak.  "I  can't  bear  even 
Wrexborough  to  put  a  finger  on  him.  But  you  must  begin 


WOULD'S-END 

to  dress,  darling1,  and  so  must  I.  I  was  so  sorry  not  to  be 
here  to  meet  you,  but  I  had  to  go  in  a  horrid  motor  with 
some  people." 

"Well,  CryscYs  .  .  .  little  girl  of  gold,"  said  Owen, 
smiling  down  at  her,  as  half  an  hour  later  she  came  and 
stood  shyly  before  him,  "are  you  pleased  with  yourself?" 

"Do  you  like  me?"  she  asked  wistfully. 

"If  you  didn't  have  on  that  diamond  halo  I  would 
show  how  much  I  like  you." 

A  .sweet  recklessness  thrilled  suddenly  through  Phoebe. 
She  took  a  passionate  little  step  toward  him. 

"Show  me  any  way,"  she  whispered. 

Owen  caught  his  lip  in  his  teeth.  His  eyes  darkened, 
and  he  stood  silent,  gazing  at  her.  Then  he  put  his  hand 
over  her  heart,  and  felt  it  leap  to  his  touch. 

"Is  it  all  mine?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"All,  all!"  said  the  girl,  still  whispering,  and  straining 
up  her  whole  slight  figure  to  meet  his  hand.  "Oh,  if  I 
could  only  take  it  out  of  my  breast  and  show  it  to  you!" 

He  caught  her  to  him  and  set  his  lips  to  hers.  The  kiss 
was  long  and  deep.  He  drew  back  from  it  with  a  shudder, 
putting  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

Suddenly  the  noise  of  a  huge  silver  gong  wrent  softly 
roaring  through  the  house. 

Owen  tried  to  smile  it  off. 

"Honey-pot  .  .  .  honey-pot,"  he  said  unsteadily.  "This 
is  a  crazy  way  to  prepare  you  for  your  introduction  into 
English  society.  ..." 

Phoebe  was  looking  up  at  him,  a  soft,  dazed  passion  in 
her  eyes. 

"I  don't  care  ..."  she  whispered.  "I  don't  care  for 
anything  in  the  whole  world  but  your  love." 

"Well  .  .  .  you  have  it,"  said  he  with  a  short  laugh. 
"Now,  come.  .  .  .  Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  .  .  .  Oh, 
what  a  disintegrating  little  writch  you  arc!  Come  .  .  . 
really  .  .  .  we  must  go.  down.  Let's  say  our  multiplica 
tion  table  together  to  collect  our  wits."  And  he  began  so 
seriously :  Twice  one  is  two ;  twice  two  is  four ;  that 
Phoebe  laughed  also,  and  the  spell  was  broken. 

The  house  party  which  Diana  had  asked  to  meet  Phoebe 
and  Owen  consisted  chiefly  of  her  most  intimate  friends. 
Londoners,  both  wise  cud  frivolous,  especially  at  the  end 
of  the  season,  welcome  anything  that  is  new,  and  the  ro 
mantic  story  well  told  of  a  little  Cinderella,  who  was  also, 


210  WOULD'S-END 

Diana  declared,  a  darling  and  a  beauty — and  who  had  just 
been  lifted  by  the  Prince  from  obscurity  and  poverty  into 
the  fairy-like  possession  of  American  millions  ("billions," 
Lady  Frances  had  put  it),  made  all  the  guests  at  Mivvern 
anxious  to  see  Cinderella  for  themselves. 

It  was  a  delightful  gathering — as  delightful  and  catho 
lic  as  only  English  house  parties  ever  are.  There  was  an 
ex-cabinet  minister — the  most  distinguished  parliamentar 
ian  of  his  day — an  amusedly  listless  personage,  with  dead- 
white  hair  and  dead-black  eyes,  and  a  lank,  languid  figure 
— who  looked  as  though  Hamlet  might  have  been  his  grand 
father,  the  "melancholy  Jacques"  his  father,  and  Amiel  a 
maternal  uncle. 

There  was  an  old  cabinet  minister,  who  looked  exactly 
like  the  picture  of  John  Bull  in  "Punch" — and  a  young 
cabinet  minister, — a  very  stripling  of  a  cabinet  minister, 
with  a  smooth,  round,  peachy,  teasing  face,  greenish-grey 
eyes  and  impossibly  thick  boyish  hair.  Phoebe  could 
scarcely  believe  that  the  Honourable  Victor  Keith  Had- 
ringham  really  and  truly  occupied  that  awesome  position. 

There  was  a  rather  overpowering  great  lady  of  mature 
charms,  with  a  petunia-coloured  wig  and  the  biggest 
sapphires  in  England,  who  Phoebe  learned  later  to  her 
unmixed  bewilderment  was  the  inamorata  of  the  John- 
Bullish  peer ;  openly  acknowledged  by  everyone  but  herself 
and  his  lordship. 

There  came  several  less  exalted  personages — a  great  nov 
elist,  a  well-known  actor,  a  noted  M.F.H.,  some  charming 
women  among  whom  was  Lady  Frances's  sister  Delia  Tor- 
ranee  (called  Dempsy  by  her  friends),  a  gay  mad-cap,  as 
small  and  dark  as  Lady  Frances  was  tall  and  fair. 

"Nervous,  dear?"  asked  Owen,  as  they  went  down  the 
last  broad,  shallow  flight  together  and  the  hum  in  the 
drawing-room  grew  louder. 

"No,"  said  Phoebe,  with  a  little  up-tilt  of  her  chin. 
"It's  funny  how  brave  one  feels  in  a  beautiful  dress.  It's 
like  a  knight  getting  on  his  armour. ' ' 

"Well,  God  be  wi'  you,  little  Daniel,"  said  Owen,  step 
ping  aside  for  her  to  enter  the  brilliant  room  that  hummed 
like  a  gilt  hive.  "I  throw  you  to  the  lions.  ..." 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  211 


XXIX 

"OHOEBE  never  forgot  that  first  English  dinner.  Young 
•*•  Hadringham  took  her  in.  When  they  sat  down  Lord 
RrOekmorton,  a  quiet,  dark  man  of  about  thirty-five,  was 
on  her  right.  Phoebe's  eyes  were  sloe-blue  with  shy  ex 
citement.  The  little  blushes  waved  their  bright  flags  be- 
iieath.  On  her  sorrel  head  the  tiny  diamonds  twinkled 
as  she  turned  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  two  men,  who 
both  began  talking  to  her  at  the  same  time. 

"Talk  to  me,  Mrs.  Randolph,"  urged  Hadringham; 
"Rockmorton  is  only  'bluffing/  as  you  say  in  the  States. 
He  isn't  such  fathoms  deep  as  I  am.  He's  really  the 
property  of  Dempsey  Torrance,  only  she  talks  so  much  and 
he  so  little  that  they've  never  managed  to  come  to  the 
point  between  them. ' ' 

"Don't  listen  to  Vic,  Mrs.  Randolph,"  said  Rockmorton 
in  his  turn.  "He's  an  abominable  hedger  and  would  com 
promise  with  Cupid  himself. ' ' 

"Oh,"  said  Phoebe,  delighted,  as  she  thought,  to  under 
stand  this  allusion.  "I  know.  And  are  you  a  'ditcher,' 
Lord  Rockmorton?" 

"I  see  you're  thinking  of  the  industries  that  flourished 
so  amazingly  among  the  Tories  last  year,"  answered  he, 
smiling.  "But  I  was  only  alluding  to  my  friend's  consti 
tutional  weakness.  No — I'm  not  a  'ditcher.'  The  duke 
and  our  great  man  and  Thrynne  there  represent  the  op 
position.  I'm  what  our  papers  so  chastely  call  a  'Liberal 
peer.'  ' 

"He's  a  Laodicean,"  said  Iladringham.  "He'd  rather 
have  to  take  old  Sophia  off  Burlough's  hands  than  give  a 
casting  vote." 

"Why  do  you  call  her  'old  Sophia'?"  asked  Phoebe, 
glancing  at  the  Countess  of  Greystairs.  "She  isn't  really 
old." 

"We  don't  mean  anything  unkind  by  it,"  Hadringham. 
assured  her  gravely.  ' '  It 's  a  sort  of  term  of  affection.  Per 
haps  it's  a  little  the  contrast  of  her  wig.  Did  you  ever 
see  such  immortal  youth  in  a  wig?" 

"It  would  be  more  becoming  with  a  little  grey  in  it, 
don't  you  think  so?"  suggested  Phoebe  timidly. 

Rockmorton  and  Hadriugham  went  off  into  fits  of  laugh 
ter. 


212  WORLD'S-END 

"Suggest  it  to  her!  Pray  suggest  it  to  her,  dear  lady," 
said  Rockmorton  when  he  had  recovered.  "And  let  me 
hide  behind  the  door  when  you  do  so." 

""Well,  I  do  think  it  would  soften  her  face,"  persisted 
Phoebe  stoutly. 

"  'Soften  her  face!'  "  moaned  Hadringham,  and  then 
they  were  off  again. 

"What  did  I  say  so  funny  that  time?"  asked  Phoebe, 
with  a  puzzled  smile. 

"Why,  bless  me,  Mrs.  Randolph,  if  you  softened  old 
Sophia's  face  you'd  destroy  it  entirely.  Her  only  hope  is 
to  keep  it  as  hard  as  possible." 

"As  hard  ...  ?"  said  Phoebe,  opening  wide  her  eyes 
upon  him. 

"The  'patina'  of  Lady  Greystairs's  face  is  celebrated," 
Rockmorton  explained.  "It's  almost  as  rare  a  work  of  art 
as  the  lost  Chinese  art  of  cloisonnee  on  filigree." 

"Is  it  .  .  .  enamelled?"  asked  Phoebe,  in  an  awed  whis 
per,  which  convulsed  them  again.  "I've  heard  of  that, 
but  I  never  saw  it  before. ' ' 

And  she  gazed  cautiously  over  the  epergne  of  mauve 
orchids,  at  the  perilous  snows  and  carnations  of  "old 
Sophia's"  countenance. 

"Eric,"  said  Hadringham  suddenly,  "I've  done  my 
duty  nobly  by  Lady  Constance,  but  the  fair  Boultbee  will 
make  her  Arthur  call  you  out  on  the  pretext  that  your 
hair  isn't  brushed  to  suit  him,  or  something  of  that  sort, — 
if  you  neglect  her  another  instant." 

Rockmorton  put  up  his  eye-glass,  looked  through  it  with 
scorn  at  his  friend,  as  though  saying,  "I'm  up  to  your 
tricks,  old  chap,"  and  turned  resignedly  to  the  beauty  on 
his  right,  who  was  beginning  to  make  pellets  of  her  bread 
with  a  frosty  air  of  detachment. 

"Now,"  said  Hadringham  genially  to  Phoebe,  "tell  me 
something  about  Virginia.  I've  always  doted  on  Virginia 
and  Virginians  ever  since  I  first  read  my  Thackeray;  and 
I  'm  sure  you  'd  like  talking  about  your  home. ' ' 

"Oh,  how  kind  of  you  to  care!"  cried  Phoebe,  her  eyes 
lighting  up,  "just  like  big  purple  lamps,"  as  Hadringham 
afterwards  confided  to  Diana.  And  she  flung  herself 
whole-heartedly  into  a  description  of  Nelson's  Gift,  the 
darkies,  "Killdee,"  "King  Reddy  "—everything. 

"And  you've  lived  there  like  a  little  dryad  in  a  birch- 
tree  all  these  years,"  said  Victor  Hadringham,  regarding 


WORLD'S-EXD  213 

her  meditatively  out  of  his  broad,  greenish  eyes,  "and  now 
you  sit  here  looking  like  a  darling  little  queen  in  the  midst 
of  our  over-civilised  flummeries." 

It  was  so  astonishing  to  Phoebe  to  have  a  strange  youth 
call  her  a  " darling  little  queen,"  even  though  he  were 
the  infant  prodigy  of  the  Cabinet,  that  she  blushed  all 
down  her  milky  neck  and  arms. 

"Oh,  you  sweet !"  thought  Victor;  "here  I've  been  wast 
ing  my  youth  mulling  at  beastly  politics  when  I  might 
have  been  questing  for  you  in  the  cotton  groves  of  Vir 
ginia.  ' ' 

"Virginia  has  cotton  groves,  hasn't  it?"  he  asked  sud 
denly. 

"Well  .  .  .  you  see,"  said  Phoebe,  hesitating  in  her  ef 
fort  to  impart  the  truth  without  seeming  too  bluntly  to 
correct  an  ignorance  so  astonishing  in  a  Cabinet  Minis 
ter;  "it  docr-n't  grow  quite  tall  enough  to  make  groves. 
We  say  cotton  fields.  But  South  Carolina  and  Georgia 
and  Alabama  are  the  cotton  States.  Tobacco  comes  from 
Virginia,  you  know." 

"Of  course!  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  his  pipe!  .  .  .  And 
he  brought  us  over  those  jolly  flowers  called  Michaelmas- 
daisies,  too.  But,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm  not  thinking 
of  either  the  flora  or  the  staple  products  of  Virginia.  What 
I  am  really  thinking  ..." 

"Yes?  .  .  .    What?"  asked  Phoebe,  deeply  interested. 

"Since  you  ask  me  then — what  I  am  really  thinking  is 
whether  you  are  frightfully  in  love  with  your  husband? 
.  .  .  But  stay  .  .  .  don't  break  it  too  abruptly  to  me  if 
you  are.  I  couldn't  stand  the  shock  like  this,  right  before 
everyone,  with  a  large  slice  of  roast  beef  looking  me  full 
in  the  face,  too.  .  .  .  But  please,  please  don't  say  you 
are!  .  .  .  He's  ages  too  old  for  you.  You  should  love 
someone  of — let  me  see — well,  someone  not  more  than 
thirty-two  .  .  .  someone  who  would  be  foolish  enough  to 
build  a  little  shrine  to  each  of  those  pansies  that  I  suppose 
you  call  eyes.  You  angel  lady ! "  he  broke  off,  ' '  if  you  look 
at  me  with  that  horrified  expression  of  shocked  amaze,  I 
shall  swoon,  and  then  'the  Powers,'  "  he  nodded  towards 
Lord  Burlough,  "will  want  to  know  what's  up,  and  my 
parliamentary  future  won't  be  worth  twopence!  Are  you 
really  shocked?"  he  asked,  leaning  a  little  nearer  her, 
charmed  by  the  puzzled  cloud  in  her  eyes,  which  arose 
from  not  knowing  whether  to  consider  him  demented  or  a 


214,  WORLD'S-END 

wicked  Lothario.  "You  mustn't  be,  you  know?  .  .  .  Just 
ask  Di,  or  any  of  them,  and  they'll  tell  you  that  Vie  Had- 
ringham  is  a  perfectly  harmless  person." 

"Oh,"  said  Phoebe,  immensely  relieved.  "Of  course 
.  .  .  you  were  'chaffing'  me,  as  you  call  it  over  here!" 

"No, — lovely  dryad,  I  wasn't  exactly  chaffing,"  said 
Hadringham  mournfully.  "But  I'm  afraid  you  are  in 
love  with  your  husband.  Only  don't  tell  me  so  bang  out. 
Sweet  dreams  are  better  than  sour  realities. ' ' 

Here  Rockmorton  firmly  intervened,  and  Phoebe,  bewil 
dered  and  determining  to  ask  the  key  of  this  strange 
statesman's  character  from  Diana  on  the  first  opportunity, 
turned  to  her  other  neighbour  with  a  little  breath  of  re 
lief. 

It  was  an  eager,  excited  Phoebe  who  faced  Owen  that 
night,  when  he  came  in  from  his  dressing-room  to  ask  how 
she  had  enjoyed  her  evening. 

"Oh,  Owen!"  she  cried.  .  .  .  "They  seem  to  like  me! 
.  .  .  Oh,  I'll  make  you  proud  of  me  yet!  .  .  .  You  shall 
be  proud  of  me !  .  .  . " 

' '  Conceited  child !  I  'm  proud  of  you  now, ' '  said  he, 
laughing.  "Keep  those  Cinderella  slippers  still  a  moment, 
and  tell  me  some  of  your  triumphal  experiences." 

She  came  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  the  big,  chintz-covered 
chair  into  which  he  had  thrown  himself.  Her  voice  took 
on  a  little  hush. 

"Owen  ...  do  you  know?     It  was  like  miracles.  . 
But  I  didn't  make  a  fool  of  myself.    "When  Mr.  Ravon  took 
me  off  to  that  corner  it  was  all  I  could  do  not  to  look  round 
to  you  for  help.    One  of  the  greatest  scholars  in  England, 
and  me,  Owen !    Just  think  of  it !  .  .  .  and  then.  ..." 

She  swung  her  graceful  body  forward  and  looked  into 
his  face. 

"Do  you  know  what  happened?" 

"If  I  hadn't  been  looking  all  the  wrhile,  I  should  strongly 
suspect  him  of  having  kissed  you,"  replied  he,  much 
amazed. 

"No.  .  .  .  But  he  began  that  quotation  about  the  Dios 
curi  from  Epictetus,  and  I  finished  it!  ...  You  know 
Epictetus  is  the  only  what-you-might-call  learned  book  that 
I  do  know  anything  about!  ...  I  felt  a  dreadful  little 
fraud,  but  he  looked  so  pleased  that  I  just  thanked  God  I 
knew  that  much!  ,  .  .  Then  Lord  Burlough  said  some- 


WORLD'S-END  215 

thing  about  Burke,  and  I  had  read  some  of  Burke  to  dear 
father,  so  I  knew  that!  .  .  .  And  oh!  Owen  .  .  .  won't 
you  get  me  all  Burke 's  speeches  .  .  .  and,  and  .  .  .  Plato. 
And  some  things  from  the  Persian.  I  do  want  to  know 
things  so  dreadfully !  I  want  you  to  be  proud  of  me !  Oh, 
I  do  want  that  more  than  anything!" 

"More  than  anything f"  he  asked,  laughing  in  spite  of 
himself,  and  catching  the  excited  little  hand  which  was 
tracing  on  the  air  the  immense  scope  of  the  learning  which 
she  wished  to  absorb. 

She  slid  down  beside  him,  regardless  of  her  spangled 
gown. 

"More  than  anything  .  .  .  but  one  thing,"  she  said 
softly.  Owen  sat  looking  into  the  ardent,  upturned  face  a 
moment ;  then  he  took  it  in  his  hands,  and  kissed  softly  her 
forehead  and  eyelids  and  mouth. 

"Dear  'Honey-pot, '  "  he  said.  "It's  after  one.  I'm 
going  to  help  you  get  off  these  gew-gaws — unless  you  want 
America." 

"No — I  told  her  that  she  needn't  wait  up." 

He  helped  her  unfasten  the  circlet  and  roses,  undid  such 
hooks  as  she  could  not  reach,  and  then,  kissing  her  again 
in  that  gentle,  almost  melancholy  way,  it  seemed  to  her, 
went  off  to  his  own  room. 

Phoebe,  relieved  as  she  always  was  at  the  continuance  of 
his  unimpassioned  mood,  felt  yet  a  sharp,  contradictory 
pang.  Did  he  really,  really  love  her,  after  all?  or  was  it 
only  a  kind  affection  that  he  felt?  She  crept  rather  for 
lornly  and  humbly  into  the  big  bed,  and  in  her  ear,  buried 
in  the  huge,  square  pillow,  her  heart  beat.  "Shameless! 
Shameless!  "Would  he  love  you  at  all  if  ...  he  knew?" 

Great  tears  began  to  burn  her  eyes.  All  the  guileless 
delight  in  her  little  triumphs  slipped  from  her  like  a  gar 
ment.  She  sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 


XXX 

month  of  August,  the  most  disastrous  to  agricul- 
*•  ture  that  England  had  known  in  many  years,  passed 
weeping  on  its  way.  As  a  writer  from  Herefordshire  sum 
marised  in  one  of  the  weeklies,  "Wheat  was  nil,  under 
waiter ;  barley  practically  ditto ;  oats  worse  than  bad ;  grass 
120,  but  no  good." 


216  WORLD'S-END 

"You  will  carry  away  a  doleful  impression  of  our  'tight 
little  island/  "  Diana  had  said  to  Phoebe  on  the  fourth 
morning  of  steady  downpour  at  Mivvern,  but  so  very 
"nice"  was  everyone  to  the  little  Virginian  that  it  would 
have  taken  more  than  a  rainy  August  to  give  her  a  sad 
impression  of  England. 

And  yet  in  spite  of  all  the  petting  and  spoiling  that  she 
received,  in  spite  of  the  wonderful  and  ever  new  fact  that 
she  was  regarded  as  a  "great  darling"  and  the  "new 
beauty"  wherever  she  went,  in  spite  of  Owen's  evident  if 
amused  pride  in  her  little  successes, — far  down  in  her 
heart  a  red  mouse  was  gnawing  night  and  day.  Scarcely 
was  there  a  moment  that  she  did  not  feel  the  sharp  teeth 
digging,  digging  in  her  side.  And  dreadfully  clear  would 
sometimes  come  the  face  of  Richard, — just  as  she  was 
falling  asleep  or  wraldng  maybe, — with  expressions  of  ter 
rible  intimacy, — with  eyes  dilated  with  cruel  love,  as  she 
had  seen  it  that  night  in  May. 

And  she  would  wonder  with  a  sick  shudder,  lying  all 
alone  in  the  big  bed  under  its  gay  chintz  curtains,  how 
Owen's  face  would  look  were  he  ever  to  know,  .  .  .  Were 
she  ever  to  tell  him.  .  .  .  "Would  he  perhaps  kill  her  ?  Kill 
Richard?  .  .  .  Oh,  she  hoped  that  rather  than  hate  her 
he  would  kill  her  quickly,  mercifully !  But  she  knew  that 
this  was  mere  idle  fantasy.  No  idea  could  be  more  far 
fetched  and  absurd  than  that  Owen  should  deal  brutally 
with  a  woman.  No, — he  would  merely  give  her  one  look 
of  loathing  and  turn  from  her  forever.  She  tried  to  im 
agine  his  face  with  such  a  look  upon  it,  but  except  in  a 
dream  now  and  then,  horribly  real,  she  could  never  picture 
it  otherwise  than  kind.  Yet  this  kindly  look  was,  in  itself, 
beginning  to  torture  her.  Had  she  then  dreamed  those 
few  passionate  caresses,  that  she  trembled  to  remember, 
that  she  had  trembled  in  receiving, — afraid  of  her  own 
joy  in  them,  that  even  now  seemed  so  shameful  a  thing  to 
her? 

Even  that  kiss,  given  on  the  evening  of  their  arrival  at 
Mivvern,  just  before  they  went  down  to  dinner,  had  been 
the  last  of  its  kind  that  she  had  received  from  him.  And, 
in  her  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  men,  she  asked  herself,  if 
it  was  like  that  perhaps  always?  Did  intense  feeling  die 
with  them  as  a  bee  dies  when  it  has  stung?  .  .  .  Was 
one  passionate  embrace  all  that  their  love  demanded  ?  And 
oh !  when  she  so  completely  loathed  that  other,  was  it,  after 


WORLD'S-END  217 

all,  so  shameful  in  her  to  love  passionately  the  man  who 
was  her  husband?  But,  then,  was  it  not  doubly  shameful 
to  love  him  if  he  had  no  love  for  her?  ...  If  he  only 
thought  of  her  with  that  amused  affection  which  she  had 
come  almost  to  shrink  from?  .  .  . 

A  wild  hope  had  begun  to  visit  her  as  far  back  as  those 
Paris  days.  The  hope  that  perhaps  ...  in  spite  of  every 
thing,  she  had  been  mistaken.  That  destiny  would  not  put 
upon  her  the  hideous  burden  of  that  other's  child.  When 
she  thought  that  this  horror  might  be  before  her  ...  it 
seemed  as  though  she  must  escape  through  what  the  old 
Stoic  that  she  loved, — her  one  wise  friend,  Epictetus, — 
called  "the  open  door."  .  .  .  But  she  felt  so  well,  so  light 
.  .  .  surely,  surely  she  had  been  mistaken.  Yet,  if  she 
were  not  ...  if  that  surplusage  of  misery  were  in  store 
for  her  .  .  .  would  not  even  the  harsh  God  of  the  Old 
Testament  forgive  her  if  she  sought  escape  from  it  in 
death.  For  there  had  begun  to  grow  in  Phoebe  a  new 
realisation  of  the  terrible  wrong  that  she  had  done  to 
Owen.  She  had  known  his  views  on  certain  matters  when 
she  consented  to  marry  him  .  .  .  that  his  code  was  one  of 
broadest  compassion  and  non-judgment  of  others  even  for 
a  fault  like  hers  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  his  code  involved  the  tell 
ing  of  the  truth,  .  .  .  the  deliberate  choice  of  a  man  in 
such  a  case.  .  .  .  And  Avhat  had  she  done  by  her  silence? 
...  It  was  no  less  than  the  one  sin  unpardonable  in 
women  that  she  had  committed — the  foisting  of  another 
man's  child  on  one  who  would  believe  himself  its  father. 
.  .  .  Oh,  now  ...  if  this  child  were  born  to  her  she  must 
tell  him  .  .  .  she  must  tell  him  and  go  away  from  him 
forever  or  ...  It  was  too  late  to  retrieve  her  sin  against 
him,  but  at  least  she  could  expiate  it  even  by  death. 

And  she  wondered  at  her  own  nature,  which  could  pass 
through  such  abysms  of  wretchedness  as  she  descended  into, 
during  these  hours,  .  .  .  and  then  later  on  recoil  and  find 
solace  and  even  jcyousness  in  the  passing  moment. 

If  only,  if  only  that  would  not  come  upon  her,  she  could 
bear  anything  else,  even  the  lack  of  a  keener  love  on 
Owen's  part.  If  only  that  would  withdraw  its  sullen,  fetid 
shadow  from  her  life,  .  .  .  she  would  go  softly  all  her 
days,  not  in  the  bitterness,  but  in  the  thankfulness  of  her 
heart.  She  could  tell  him  then — some  day — without  abso 
lute  despair. 

And  in  Owen  also  this  hope  had  begun  to  stir.     She 


218  WORLD'S-END 

seemed  so  girlish,  so  Hebe-fresh  and  virginal,  .  .  .  her 
lithe  figure  had  such  pretty  slenderness.  Might  it  not  all 
have  been  a  horrible  mistake?  .  .  .  The  error  of  a  girl's 
ignorant  alarm,  following  the  shock  of  betrayal?  ...  If 
this  were  so  ...  The  rest  seemed  almost  trivial  compared 
to  the  unspeakable  relief  that  would  result  from  a  certain 
knowledge  that  no  child  would  be  born  of  Kichard's 
wanton  baseness. 

Owen  looked  on  life  with  a  large  tolerance.  Bodily 
chastity,  per  se,  had  always  seemed  to  him* far  below  other 
virtues  in  the  scale  of  goodness.  He  ranked  unselfishness, 
forgiveness,  kindliness,  fellow-feeling  far  above  it,  when 
considered  as  a  thing  apart.  A  merciful  prostitute  seemed 
to  him  a  far  worthier  creature  than  a  back-biting  prude. 
He  valued  deeply  that  saying  of  the  Christ  that  publicans 
and  harlots  enter  the  Kingdom  before  certain  of  the  pro 
fessedly  righteous.  He  had  not  the  Minotaurish  trend  of 
the  male  nature  which  demands  offerings  of  virgins  as  its 
natural  food.  That  Phoebe  had  not  come  to  him  a  virgin 
was  a  matter  that  caused  him  personal  suffering  through 
the  instinctive  exclusiveness  of  sexual  passion,  but  he  did 
not  condemn  her  or  regard  her  as  a  soiled  creature  be 
cause  in  her  unguarded,  inexperienced  springtime  she  had 
yielded  to  an  overmastering  if  mistaken  passion.  For  he, 
on  his  side,  never  doubted  that  Phoebe  would  one  day  tell 
him  all.  What  racked  him,  what  broke  him  on  the  wheel 
of  his  own  imagination  was  the  thought  that  in  the  fair 
body  which  had  grown  dearer  to  him  than  the  blood  in  his 
own  veins  lay  hidden  that  possible  life  writh  sources  drawn 
from  a  foul  spring,  .  .  .  the  life  quickened  by  another  and 
which  might  bring  her  torture  and  even  death. 

Love,  in  its  strongest  aspects,  is  never  a  reasoned  thing. 
Such  love  he  had  come  to  feel  for  her,  yet  he  told  himself 
that  he  had  full  reason  also  for  his  love. 

A  sweeter,  more  generous,  more  single-hearted,  more 
natural  and  divinely  ardent  creature  never  drew  the  breath 
of  life,  he  felt  assured, — recalling  the  infinite  sweet  riches 
of  her  lovely  nature.  A  fitter  victim  for  Richard's  cool- 
hearted  lust  could  not  have  been  found,  though  fate  had 
combed  the  world  with  her  great  carding-iron.  And  yet 
.  .  .  how  was  it  with  her  in  regard  to  Richard?  She  gave 
him,  .  .  .  Owen  ...  a  pathetic  hero-worship;  ...  a 
trembling  affection  (it  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
Phoebe  responded  even  by  a  tonic  echo  to  his  own  passion), 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D 

the  result  in  chief  of  what,  she  must  tell  herself,  poor 
child,  was  her  debt  of  guilty  gratitude  towards  him.  But 
Richard,  .  .  .  how  did  she  think  of  him?  .  .  .  Was  that 
love  quite  dead,  or  only  sleeping?  If  she  were  to  see  him. 
again,  .  .  .  when  she  sawr  him  again,  .  .  .  for  that  ordeal 
must  come  to  both  of  them,  to  her,  and  to  Owen  himself, 
in  time,  .  .  .  when  she  saw  Richard  again,  .  .  .  how 
would  it  be  wiil i  her?  A  first  unhappy  passion  in  the 
heart  of  a  girl  like  Phoebe  must  be  a  saturating  poison, 
he  thought,  infecting  the  tissues  of  soul  and  body,  like 
some  fabled  potion,  .  .  .  like  the  fatal  drink  mixed  by 
Isolde.  Had  life  that  bitterness  in  store  for  him?  .  .  . 
that  he  should  see  in  her  eyes  some  day  rekindled  love  for 
Richard  ? 

Once  he  had  held  her  against  his  heart  as  wife,  .  .  . 
once  only.  For  her  own  sake  he  had  drunk  of  the  cup  that 
had  not  been  mixed  for  him,  .  .  .  but  out  of  that  sole  em 
brace  had  sprung  an  enduring  passion,  .  .  .  that  emotion 
begotten  of  spirit  and  of  flesh  which  is  experienced  but 
once  in  a  lifetime  by  man  or  woman. 

And  so,  with  the  red  mice  of  secret  pain  nibbling  at  their 
hearts,  they  went  with  the  desperately  weeping  August 
days  from  country  house  to  country  house,  and  always 
Phoebe  was  petted  and  spoiled  delightfully,  and  Owen 
amused  and  humanly  pleased  with  her  pretty  triumph  and 
his  part  in  it. 

On  the  night  that  Diana  gave  her  fancy  ball  at  Guant's 
Hill  the  weather  stopped  sobbing  and  weeping  for  a  little 
while,  and  by  twelve  o'clock  a  great  gold-breasted  moon 
lolled  on  feathery  clouds  behind  the  oaks  and  beeches  of 
the  park. 

That  was  the  crowning  night  of  Phoebe's  comet-like  pas 
sage  through  the  firmament  of  British  country  life.  Diana 
had  invented  for  her  a  lovely  dryad's  costume,  and  when 
dressed  in  it  she  looked  as  though  a  slender  birch  had  just 
opened  its  silver  house  to  let  her  forth. 

Drifting  by  with  Diana  in  a  pause  of  the  dancing,  she 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  stopped  shyly  near  Owen,  who 
was  leaning  against  a  doorway  in  his  Cossack  costume  of 
severe  black  cloth  and  high  astrachan  cap.  This  costume 
had  been  suggested  by  Tolstoy's  novel  read  on  the  passage 
over. 

".  .  .  .  Will  you  dance  with  me,  Sir  Cossack?"  she 
asked,  flushing  and  paling  in  her  wild-rose  way. 


220  WORLD'S-END 

Owen  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

' '  Bad  form,  sweet  dryad, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Diana  would  have 
me  flogged  with  my  own  knout." 

"But  .  .  .  we  don't  mind,  do  we?"  she  asked  wistfully. 
"I'd  so  love  to  dance  with  you  just  once!" 

He  shook  his  head  again,  still  smiling. 

Diana,  turning  back,  overheard. 

"What's  this!  Waltz  with  one's  own  husband  at  my 
ball !  Never ! ' '  cried  she,  and  bore  the  mutinous  dryad  to 
the  other  end  of  the  room. 

Somehow  Owen's  refusal  to  dance  with  her  stung 
Phoebe  out  of  all  proportion  to  what,  in  her  mood  that 
night,  she  felt  to  be  its  affront.  And  this  sharp  sting  in 
her  pride,  in  the  vanity  evoked  by  the  constant  spoiling 
that  she  had  been  receiving  of  late,  .  .  .  caused  her  to 
sting  herself  also  like  a  little  snake  of  Arizona,  ringed  by 
birds  with  thorns.  Sharply  she  planted  these  self-inflicted 
wounds  in  her  sore,  morbid  pride.  "He  snubs  me  kindly 
like  that,  because  I  bore  him.  He  doesn't  want  me.  He  is 
only  fond  of  me  as  if  I  were  some  little  pet.  Something 
that  he  had  found  hurt  or  sick  .  .  .  that  he  had  taken  pity 
on.  Yet  other  men  care  for  me  .  .  .  make  love  to  me. 
And  if  I  am  shameless  to  want  his  love  is  it  my  fault  ?  Did 
I  make  myself?  No,  .  .  .  some  cruel  power  made  me  what 
I  am.  The  cruel  power  has  made  me  love  him.  These 
others  love  me,  but  I  only  love  him.  And  he  doesn't  want 
me.  Even  to  dance  with  me  would  bore  him.  And  yet 
other  men  tell  me  that  they  love  me,  and  that  I  am  made 
•for  love." 

And  in  her  over-strung,  excited  mood  tonight,  that  grew 
ever  more  and  more  excited  as  the  gorgeous,  confusing 
pageant  surged  about  her,  she  began  to  feel  angrily  that 
life  was  again  trying  to  cheat  her,  was  playing  with  her 
like  a  cat  with  a  mouse.  If  he  did  not  mean  to  love  her 
more,  why  had  he  loved  her  so  passionately  that  once? 
If  her  love  meant  nothing  to  him,  why  that  one  time  had 
he  trembled  at  the  touch  of  her  mouth  on  his?  .  .  .  But 
she  was  not  a  toy,  a  doll,  to  be  picked  up  in  a  careless  mo 
ment  and  then  laid  aside  and  forgotten.  She  was  not  even 
a  little  girl  any  more,  to  be  soothed  with  sugar  plums  of 
kindly  words,  and  as  good  as  bidden  to  go  and  play  by 
herself.  No  .  .  .  she  would  make  him  feel  .  .  .  she  would 
make  him  love  her!  But  how  she  would  do  this,  ...  by 
what  means  she  could  not  tell.  Only  her  heart  burned 


WOULD'S-END  221 

sullenly  like  a  smoky  candle  in  her  sore,  angry  breast,  and 
its  fumes  rose  to  her  brain,  confusing,  clouding  it  with 
thoughts  half  conceived,  that  swarmed  sparkling  like  the 
fiery  patterns  on  a  darkness  which  is  not  dark  to  sick  eyes. 

And  this  mood  mounted,  and  mounted  with  every  dance, 
with  every  sip  of  champagne  which  she  drank  thought 
lessly  to  quench  the  thirst  of  dancing,  with  every  word  of 
flattery  or  love,  whispered  by  men  who  were,  some  in 
earnest,  and  some  only  grasping  at  the  chance  of  a  few 
hot,  thrilling  moments  of  by-the-way  pleasure  when,  in 
some  discreet  corner,  they  might  taste  that  red,  tempting, 
alien  mouth.  The  unreasoning  recklessness  of  fever  came 
upon  her.  Her  hands  were  hot  and  dry,  .  .  .  her  eyelids 
felt  hot  against  her  eyes,  so  feverishly  glittering  and  di 
lated.  When  she  saw  the  tall  figure  in  its  Cossack  dress, 
dancing  with  some  other  woman,  vain  rage  scorched  her 
heart,  and  she  felt  as  the  humming-bird  does  when  it  tears 
to  pieces  the  flower  that  refuses  honey.  He  was  hers  .  .  . 
he  was  hers.  .  .  .  Whether  he  cared  or  not  ...  no  matter 
how  wrong  it  was  for  her  to  care,  ...  he  was  hers,  her 
own.  And  once  she  had  been  his.  But  he  had  played  with 
her.  "What  for  her  had  been  a  torture  of  sweetness  and 
was  now  a  torture  of  anguish  ...  had  for  him  been  only 
the  careless  drinking  from  a  cup  that  stood  at  his  hand. 
And  now  that  he  had  emptied  the  cup  of  novelty,  ...  he 
pushed  it  aside.  Yes,  yes !  She  was  like  an  empty  cup  to 
him,  .  .  .  but  she  would  show  him  that  she  was  more  .  .  . 
that  to  the  very  brim  she  was  filled  with  the  wine  of  lifz-, 
...  of  love.  .  .  . 

As  she  finished  a  dance  with  Rockmorton  they  found 
themselves  near  the  door  of  one  of  a  suite  of  smaller  rooms, 
that  lay  opposite  the  ball-room.  A  knot  of  people  clustered 
about  this  door,  evidently  gazing  at  something  of  interest 
which  was  taking  place  within.  She  pressed  forward,  eager 
in  her  present  feverish  mood  to  escape  nothing  of  the  "lust 
of  the  eyes."  She  found  herself  next  to  Owen.  She  glanced 
up  at  him,  but  he  did  not  see  her.  His  look  was  fixed  on 
Dempsy  Torrance,  who  was  dancing  alone  in  the  centre 
of  the  room.  And,  all  stung  and  quivering  with  jealousy, 
she  hurt  herself  again  and  again  by  gazing  unnoticed  at 
that  look  of  admiration  in  his  eyes.  And  again  and  again, 
smarting,  on  fire  with  her  piteous,  helpless  jealousy,  .  .  . 
she  glanced  from  his  eyes  to  the  light,  madcap  figure  of 
Dempsy,  swaying  and  turning  in  an  East  Indian  dance. 


222  WORLD'S-END 

She  was  famous  for  her  mimicry  of  celebrated  dancers, 
and  now  she  was  giving  them  an  imitation  of  the  last 
London  favourite  in  a  dance  of  exotic  seduction. 

' '  I  could  do  that  better, — yes,  better  than  she  can ! ' '  came 
Phoebe's  passionate  thoughts,  like  a  swarm  of  sparks 
burning  and  dying  out  as  they  burnt.  "I  am  prettier 
than  she  is — I  have  prettier  hands  and  feet."  And  she 
clenched  her  little  hands  in  the  folds  of  her  dress  and, 
gazing  at  Owen,  kept  saying  between  her  teeth:  "Look 
at  me  .  .  .  look  at  me  .  .  .  you  shall  look  at  me." 

He  turned  suddenly  and  looked  down  full  into  her  eyes. 
She  gasped,  locking  her  hands  together.  Something  in 
her  small,  excited  face  struck  him  painfully. 

"Don't  you  feel  well,  dear?"  he  said. 

' '  Yes — perfectly.    Why  do  you  stare  at  her  so  ? " 

"At  whom?  At  Miss  Torrance?  .  .  .  Because  she's 
charming  to  stare  at.  You  can't  see  her  where  you  are. 
Take  my  place." 

He  stepped  aside  to  make  room  for  her,  but  she  caught 
his  arm  in  her  strong  little  hand. 

"Come  and  dance  with  me,"  she  said  under  her  breath. 
"I  don't  care  what  anyone  thinks, — not  Diana  or  anyone. 
.  .  .  Come  and  dance  with  me,  Owen." 

He  laughed,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  gave  her  his 
arm.  They  began  to  dance.  He  held  her  lightly  as  one 
holds  a  stem  of  flowers  which  one  is  afraid  of  crushing. 
In  the  middle  of  the  ball-room  she  stopped  short. 

"I  won't  bore  you  any  more,"  she  said. 
•    ""Why,    Phoebe!"   said   Owen,    quite   disconcerted   and 
glancing  sideways  at  her  stormy  face.    "What  is  the  mat 
ter,  dear?" 

"Life  is  the  matter  ..."  she  said  in  a  low,  condensed 
voice.  Before  he  could  make  any  response  to  this  Victor 
Hadringham  had  danced  off  with  her. 

Owen  stood  an  instant  looking  after  them.  He  felt 
worried.  The  child  had  never  looked  lovelier,  but  there 
was  something  unnatural  and  overwrought  in  her  expres 
sion.  She  did  not  look  exactly  ill, — more  what  the  Scotch 
call  "fey."  Then  he  saw  her  smiling  and  chattering  in 
the  hall  outside  with  Hadringham,  and  presently  a  foot 
man  brought  two  glasses  of  champagne.  She  drank  one 
nearly  at  a  draught.  Hadringham  just  touched  the  other 
to  his  lips.  They  went  off  towards  the  conservatories  to 
gether. 


WORLD'S-END  223 

A  half-hour  later  Owen  saw  her  standing  near  one  of 
the  great  windows  with  Lord  Bemyss,  and  went  up  to  her. 

"Don't  overtire  yourself,  dear,"  he  said.  "It's  nearly 
three  o  'clock.  And,  by  the  way,  I  wouldn  't  take  too  much 
of  this  champagne  if  I  were  you.  AYrexborough  is  more 
famous  for  his  claret  than  his  'fizz,'  eh,  Tony?" 

"Rotten  stuff,"  agreed  Bemyss.  "I've  told  him  so  often, 
and  so  has  Diana,  but  he's  a\vfully  pig-headed." 

Owen  scarcely  heard  what  he  said,  however,  being  too 
astounded  at  the  expression  with  which  Phoebe  was  re 
garding  him.  She  was  playing  with  the  trail  of  ivy  on  her 
breast,  and  a  slight  smile  just  lifted  the  edge  of  her  lip. 
In  her  eyes,  steady,  dilated  and  wide,  fixed  on  his,  was  a 
look  almost  of  menace.  Bemyss  had  turned  away  to  speak 
to  someone  for  an  instant. 

"If  you  think  I'm  taking  too  much  wine,  why  don't 
you  tell  me  so  straight  out?"  Phoebe  was  asking  in  a  low 
voice  that  only  lie  could  hear,  "why  do  you  put  it  on  the 
poor  Duke's  champagne?" 

"Why,  Phoebe!"  said  Owen,  for  the  second  time  that 
evening. 

Here  Bemyss  turned  back  to  them  again,  and  Owen, 
after  hesitating  a  moment,  went  off  without  saying  a  word. 

The  cruel  little  imp  in  Phoebe's  heart  danced  with  glee. 

"I've  hurt  him  .  .  .  I've  hurt  him!  .  .  .  Then  I  can 
hurt  him!  .  .  .  Oh,  I'll  hurt  him  more!"  she  kept  say 
ing  to  herself. 

When  she  ran  up  to  the  beautiful  apartments  that  Di 
ana  had  assigned  to  her  in  the  West  Tower  it  was  after  four 
o  ''clock.  Somehow  her  feet  wTould  not  go  quietly  that  night 
— she  might  have  been  shod  with  the  little  red  shoes  of 
the  sea  maid  in  the  fairy-tale, — the  little  red  shoes  that 
made  their  wearer's  feet  dance  ever  on  and  on  though  her 
heart  was  breaking.  Her  feverish  mood  had  passed  into 
physical  fever  now,  though  she  did  not  know  it.  Her 
brain  was  spinning.  Her  thoughts  came  without  sequence 
but  always  on  the  same  subject.  "Love  .  .  .  love.  .  .  . 
He  shall  love  me.  .  .  .  Life  shall  not  cheat  me.  Love  .  .  . 
love  .  .  .  passionate  love  .  .  .  the  love  in  story-books  and 
songs  and  poems.  Yes  .  .  .  that  is  what  I  want.  I'm 
made  for  love,  they  say.  I  want  it  ...  I  need  it  ...  I 
will  have  it.  ...  ' 

Her  eyes  were  black  and  quivering.  The  two  little 
blushes  under  them  were  like  flowers  of  fire  now. 


224  WORLD'S-END 

She  looked  about  her.  Owen  was  not  there, — but  she 
had  felt  him  follow  her  upstairs.  He  was  in  his  own  room. 
He  would  come  presently  to  help  her  unfasten  her  dryad- 
dress.  She  took  a  length  of  her  lovely  hair  in  either  hand, 
and,  running  over  to  the  great  mirror  sunk  in  the  wall 
between  two  silver  lamps,  stood  gazing  at  her  own  image. 

Through  the  big  casement  window  the  moon,  now  near 
its  setting,  diapered  her  filmy  gown  with  soft  rose  and 
gold  and  amethyst. 

She  turned,  slowly  swaying  from  side  to  side,  as  Dempsy 
had  done  in  the  East  Indian  dance.  "Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  . 
I  am  far  prettier  .  .  .  my  breasts  are  like  white  flowers 
.  .  .  hers  are  like  little,  withered  pears.  ..." 

She  laughed  softly,  a  cruel,  low  laugh.  .  .  . 

"Well,  little  dryad,"  said  Owen's  cool,  kind  voice  from 
the  doorway  of  the  other  room.  He  came  lounging  in  with 
a  cigarette  in  his  hand.  He  still  wore  his  Cossack  dress, 
but  had  laid  aside  the  hot  cap  of  astrachan.  As  he  caught 
sight  of  her  he  stopped  short.  The  child  was  so  wonder 
fully  lovely,  standing  there  in  the  mingled  light  of  moon 
and  silver  lamps,  with  her  bright  hair  dripping  from  her 
fingers,  and  her  double  shining  back  from  the  pool  of  the 
big  mirror.  As  he  stood,  the  cigarette-smoke  curling  up 
between  them,  she  turned  softly  and  came  nearer,  laugh 
ing  again  that  little,  honeyed  cruel  laugh.  And  she  be 
gan  swaying  and  bending  before  him,  in  the  fashion  of 
Dempsy 's  slightly  tipsy  dance  of  an  hour  ago, — only  here 
the  willowy  beauty  of  the  slight  figure  made  all  the  dif 
ference. 

"See!"  she  whispered.  "I  can  do  it  too.  .  .  .  Don't 
I  do  it  as  well  as  she  does?" 

Owen  caught  his  lip  between  his  teeth.  She  knew  that 
jtrick  of  his,  and  her  heart  leaped. 

She  came  nearer. 

"Tell  me  ...  tell  me  ...  "  she  whispered.  "Isn't 
this  as  pretty  as  what  she  did?" 

' '  Phoebe  ..."  began  Owen.  His  voice  sounded  strange 
and  he  stopped  short. 

"Tell  me  .  .  .  tell  me  ..."  she  coaxed,  still  nearer 
now.  The. warm  perfume  of  her  hair  stole  to  him.  Sud 
denly  he  took  a  step  forward  and  buried  his  face  in  its 
thick  fragrance.  She  could  feel  him  shaking.  With  that 
soft,  low  laughter  she  pushed  him  from  her. 

"No  ...  no  ...  I  want  you  to  look  at  me.     I  want 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  225 

you  to  tell  me  that  I  can  do  it  as  well  as  she  can.  Look 
.  .  .  look  ..." 

Slowly  she  swayed  and  turned,  allurement  in  every  line 
of  her  softly  laughing  face  and  lissome  body.  In  that  thin, 
classic  gown,  with  the  ivy  leaves  on  hair  and  breast,  she 
was  like  a  little  priestess  of  Idalia  offering  herself  to  love. 
.  .  .  And  surely  that  was  love, — passionate  love  that 
poured  on  him  from  her  eyes  so  dilated  and  feverish  in 
her  tense,  ardent  face.  Desire  shook  him.  He  went  white 
as  death. 

Then  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  those  soft,  voluptuous 
wrcathings,  she  stiffened — stopped  short.  Her  hand  went 
to  her  side — clutched  it.  "Wild,  amazed  terror  stared  from 
her  changed  eyes. 

"What  is  it'?  For  God's  sake.  What  is  it?"  he  cried, 
starting  forward,  the  spell  snapped. 

She  rocked  stiffly  against  him  like  a  broken  toy.  He  saw 
that  she  had  fainted.  He  laid  her  on  the  great  Eliza 
bethan  bed,  and  ran  wildly  in  search  of  help. 

She   had    felt  another    life    move    beneath    her   heart. 


XXXI 

HTHE  little  village  of  Wyckthorn  in  Norfolk  looked  much 
the  same  as  it  had  done  in  the  time  of  Joseph  Arch, 
the  farmers  no  longer  flogged  the  farm  lads, — neither  were 
folk  horsewhipped  for  stealing  turnips,  nor  did  laborers 
get  the  sack  for  not  attending  church  as  in  the  good  old 
days  before  1870:  and  though  the  cottages  had  been  en 
larged,  so  that  families  of  nine  were  no  longer  sometimes 
forced  to  sleep  in  two  rooms,  thus  increasing  the  danger 
of  "a  heavy  fall  of  bastards  in  one  year,"  as  an  old  woman 
had  once  complained, — the  roses  still  climbed  as  lavishly 
over  them,  and  their  little  windows  peeped  as  charmingly 
as  ever  from  under  eyebrows  of  tangled  creepers. 

"Wyckthorn  Cottage,"  as  the  house  they  had  taken 
was  called,  stood  apart  at  one  end  of  the  village,  sur 
rounded  by  gardens  and  pasture-lands.  One  approached 
the  front  door  through  an  old  paling  fence,  in  which  be 
tween  brick  posts  was  set  a  little  gate  of  beautifully 
wrought  iron.  The  old  sunk-garden  lay  at  the  back,  and 
when  Phoebe  and  Owen  came  down  about  the  first  of  Sep 
tember  it  was  all  vaporous  with  the  tall  mauve  sprays  of 


226  WORLD'S-END 

lavender,  through  which  here  and  there  broke  a  fiery  spike 
of  scarlet  sage.  Beyond  the  garden  lay  a  shaven  lawn, 
divided  from  the  fields  by  a  ha-ha.  The  house  had  been 
added  to  from  time  to  time,  and  had  that  familiar  charm 
of  things  that  have  grown,  not  been  turned  out  all  at  once 
in  a  lump  of  geometrical  precision. 

It  had  the  queer  internal  economy  of  such  houses,  where 
all  the  domestic  viscera,  so  to  speak,  seem  topsy-turvy, 
yet  work  in  perfect  harmony  as  though  defying  the  natural 
laws  of  architecture.  Thus  the  library  was  at  the  front 
door,  the  hall  wound  like  a  "Z" — the  dining-room  found 
itself  in  a  wing,  and  the  drawing-room  came  last  of  all, 
spreading  out  along  the  whole  front  of  the  garden  as 
though  the  old  house  had  said,  "I  will  express  my  feel 
ings  for  once  in  a  big  yawn  and  stretch," — and  so  had 
gaped  forth  this  delightful,  commodious  apartment,  full 
of  old  Sheraton  furniture  and  flowery  chintz  that  seemed 
to  reproduce  the  garden  within  doors. 

The  sea  lay  about  three  quarters  of  a  mile  off,  and  a 
winding,  white  road  led  to  it  along  the  ''Broads,"  on  an 
arm  of  which  a  windmill  spread  its  slatted  wings  against 
the  low,  English  sky. 

Phoebe  had  been  very  ill  for  several  days  after  those 
wild  moments  in  the  East  Tower,  in  which  she  had  seemed 
to  change  into  another  being  before  Owen's  bewildered 
eyes. 

As  he  sat  white  and  miserable  the  next  morning  near 
the  window  before  which  her  wilful,  lovely  dance  had 
taken  place,  Diana  had  come  slipping  softly  in  from  the 
bedroom,  a  queer  smile  on  her  lips. 

This  smile  was  so  strange  that  it  checked  the  question 
with  which  Owen  had  started  up. 

"You  dear  soul,"  she  had  whispered.  "Don't  look  so 
scared. ' ' 

She  took  his  hand,  and  held  it. 

c '  You  dear,  stupid,  stupid  old  silly ! ' '  she  had  exclaimed, 
still  in  a  whisper  and  still  smiling.  ' '  Haven 't  you  guessed  ? 
.  .  .  Really?" 

The  blood  rushed  back  on  Owen's  heart. 

"Not  .  .  . ?"  he  stammered. 

"Yes!"  said  Diana.  Tears  shone  behind  her  smile. 
"The  poor  darling  is  a  bit  out  of  her  head, — but  it's 
nothing.  Girls  are  often  like  this  .  .  .  with  the  first,  you 
know.  I'm  going  now  to  wire  Fulke  to  come  down  at 


WORLD'S-END  227 

once.  There's  a  good  nurse  in  AYrexton.  I'll  send  a  trap 
for  her  •when  I  send  the  wire.  .  .  .  The  child  got  over 
excited  last  night.  .  .  .  Danced  too  much,  and  all  that. 
Don't  look  so  worried!  I  assure  you  it's  nothing.  She'll 
be  perfectly  all  right  in  a  day  or  two." 

And,  still  smiling  that  mysterious  little  smile  that  women 
have  for  such  occasions,  she  left  him. 

So  it  had  come !  .  .  .  He  sat  down  with  a  queer  feeling 
of  halvedness,  as  though  he  had  been  cut  in  two  just  under 
his  breast-bone.  And,  then,  suddenly  broke  upon  him  a 
dark  shower  of  strangely  practical  questionings.  "When 
would  the  child  be  born?  .  .  .  He  remembered  bits  of 
old-wives'  wisdom  that  he  had  not  known  until  then  he 
was  even  aware  of.  From  some  odd  pigeon-hole  in  his 
mind  lie  drew  them  forth.  Seven-months  children  were 
different  from  other  children.  People  who  knew  about  such 
things  could  tell  at  once.  .  .  .  He  must  keep  anyone  away 
from  her  who  knew  the  date  of  their  marriage.  .  .  .  Tante 
Suzanne.  .  .  .  She  would  be  sure  to  want  to  be  with 
Phoebe.  ...  If  the  child  were  not  what  a  seven-months 
child  should  be — she  would  know  at  once.  Would  surmise 
all  sorts  of  things.  .  .  .  His  heart  choked  him  with  its  hot 
bound.  .  .  .  She  would  think  that  he — he — Owen  himself. 
.  .  .  He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  a  face  like 
death.  Suddenly  it  worked  like  a  woman's.  He  sat  down 
again  and  covered  it  with  his  hands.  A  sob  broke  from 
him. 

Nothing  that  he  had  ever  heard  or  read  of, — no  tragedy 
of  Ophelia,  or  Antigone  or  Virginia  herself,  slain  in  the 
market-place  by  her  father's  hand, — seemed  to  him  so  pite 
ous,  so  horrible,  as  the  tragedy  of  that  dance  of  love 
checked  by  the  stirring  of  another's  child.  For  he  guessed 
with  hateful  certainty  that  such  was  the  truth. 

Phoebe  came  out  of  her  illness  like  one  dazed.  She 
seemed  unable  to  recall  incidents  that  had  happened  for 
quite  a  considerable  period  before  it.  Thus  her  arrival 
at  Gaunt 's  Hill  and  the  ball  itself  were  blanks  to  her. 
Diana  petted  her  and  bade  her  not  worry; — told  her 
that  it  was  all  very  natural  just  now,  and  that  the  great 
accoucheur,  Lindsay  Fulke,  had  said  that  she  only 
needed  perfect  quiet  to  set  her  straight  again.  It  was 
that  silly  ball,  and  her  own  too  charming  little  self,  which, 
had  made  those  greedy  men  dance  her  to  death, — that  had 
done  the  mischief.  If  only  she,  Diana,  had  known!  .  .  . 


228  WORLD'S-END 

But,  then,  probably  such  a  blessed  little  goosie  as  Phoebe 
had  not  known  herself.  Diana  was  so  happy  for  her!  .  .  . 
There  was  nothing  in  the  world  sweeter  than  little  lips 
at  one's  breast.  It  was  a  droll,  queer  rapture  that  only 
those  who  had  felt  it  would  understand.  Phoebe  must 
think  of  her  when  that  little  sucking  caress  as  of  a  fairy- 
bee  thrilled  her  heart  for  the  first  time.  And  so  on,  and 
on.  While  Phoebe,  lying  white  and  spent,  thought  how 
strange  it  was  that  a  lovely  voice  like  Diana's  could  yet 
sound  so  hideous  in  her  ears. 

As  soon  as  Phoebe  was  able  to  travel,  Dr.  Fulke  ordered 
her  to  the  quiet  of  Wyckthorn.  Diana  had  a  round  of 
important  visits  to  make  in  Scotland,  and  politics  were 
very  stirring  just  then,  Wrexborough  needed  her  every 
minute,  but  as  soon  as  she  could,  as  soon  as  Fulke  would  let 
her,  she  was  coming  to  see  how  her  little  Virginian  sweetie 
fared  in  an  English  cottage.  It  was  a  duck  of  a  cottage. 
She  envied  her  brother  every  time  she  went  there.  She 
wouldn't  give  one  such  ducky  cottage  for  a  dozen  Gaunt 's 
Hills,  etc.,  etc. 

Owen  had  realised  almost  immediately  that  Phoebe's 
mind  was  washed  of  the  memory  of  that  wayward,  passion 
ate  dance,  and  he  thanked  God  for  it.  He  quivered  when 
he  remembered  the  depths  of  joyous  passion,  pagan  and 
unashamed,  that  had  been  revealed  in  her.  He  had  thought 
to  marry  Chloe,  sweet  as  clover,  and  he  had  taken  Idalia'a 
daughter  to  his  wife.  And  though  it  was  a  temporary 
madness  that  had  thus  unveiled  the  divine  fire  to  him,  yet 
he  felt,  very  surely  now,  that  love  for  him  had  kindled 
it,  and  that  what  had  passed  between  her  and  Richard 
was  but  as  lightning  striking  out  a  sudden  storm,  as  soon 
spent  as  gathered. 

Only  the  more  terrible  did  this  make  the  tragedy  of  the 
not-to-be-escaped  fate  that  lay  before  her, — before  him 
through  her. 

The  first  days  at  "Wyckthorn  were  passed,  whenever  the 
weather  permitted,  in  the  Una-boat.  As  Phoebe  had  said, 
she  never  suffered  from  seasickness,  and  these  long  hours 
tacking  along  the  lovely,  wistful  shore  at  high  tide  seemed 
to  soothe  her,  and  melt  the  trouble  in  her  large  eyes,  for 
the  time  being. 

Later  on  she  began  to  ask  for  books  and  papers,  and 
would  lie  contented  on  a  sofa  before  the  log-fire  in  the 
cheery  drawing-room  as  long  as  Owen,  could  manage  to 


WORLD'S-END  229 

read  aloud  to  her.  Somehow  an  obsession  for  hearing 
Plato  took  her, — and  Owen  subscribed  to  the  London  Li 
brary  that  he  might  easily  get  her  any  book  that  she  de 
sired. 

_IIe  read  the  "Phedrus;'  and  "Crito"  and  "Sympo 
sium"  to  her,  and  she  thrilled  over  them,  as  most  girls  of 
her  age  would  have  done  over  melodrama.  Here  was  a 
new  charm  in  this  rich  nature  which  he  realised  was  only 
just  beginning  to  unfold. 

She  gave  a  little  laugh,  the  first  in  many  a  day,  when  he 
read  bow  Alcibiades  had  taken  the  big  wreath  of  violets 
and  ivy,  fluttering  with  ribbons,  from  his  own  brows  and 
crowned  Agathon,  and  then,  suddenly  catching  sight  of 
Socrates  next  him,  had  begged  back  some  ribbons  from. 
Agathoii  and  decked  the  great  philosopher's  bald  head 
with  them. 

"Oh,  Owen.  I  can  see  him!"  she  said.  "So  drunk  and 
handsome,  with  Socrates'  kind,  ugly  face  just  quietly  smil 
ing  at  him.  But  read  me  about  Diotima  again.  What  she 
says  when  Socrates  asks  her,  'What  is  love'?" 

Owen  read: 

"  'What,  then,  is  Love,'  I  asked?  'Is  he  mortal?  .  .  .' 
'No.'  'What  then?'  'As  in  former  instances  he  is  neither 
mortal  nor  immortal,  but  in  a  mean  between  the  two.' 
'What  is  he,  Diotima?'  'He  is  a  great  spirit,  and  like 
all  spirits  he  is  intermediate  between  the  divine  and  the 
mortal.'  'And  what,'  I  said,  'is  his  power?'  'He  inter 
prets,'  she  replied,  'between  gods  and  men.  ...  '  " 

"Stop!"  she  had  cried,  raising  herself  on  her  elbow, 
with  starry  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks.  "That  is  enough. 
Put  a  mark  in  it — I  want  to  learn  it  by  heart  tonight  be 
fore  I  go  to  sleep." 

Then  she  began  to  want  to  know  more  of  the  world 
philosophies  and  religions. 

He  got  the  Bhagavad  Gita  and  a  little  book  of  extracts 
from  the  gospel  of  Buddha.  From  a  beautiful  transla 
tion  of  bits  of  the  Mahabbarata  he  read  her  of  how  the 
king  turns  back  from  the  door  of  heaven  when  the  door 
keeper  will  not  admit  the  faithful  hound  that  has  followed 
him  through  all  his  troubles.  And  of  how,  as  he  is  turn 
ing  away,  lo !  the  doorkeeper  himself  ia  revealed  as  the 
great  god  Indra,  who  bids  them  both  enter,  as  this  was 
the  last  test. 

Her  tears  came.     She  said: 


230  WORLD'S-END 

"I  think  that's  almost  the  loveliest  thing  in  any  Bible 
I  ever  heard  of." 

Chven  bent  down  and  kissed  her  with  emotion.  "You 
are  the  loveliest  thing  in  or  out  of  Bibles!"  he  had  whis 
pered  rather  chokily. 

They  made  little  excursions  into  Fichte,  Spinoza, 
William  Law.  lie  sent  for  such  books  at  random  as  they 
came  into  his  mind.  Then  she  wanted  to  know  more  of 
modern  philosophy.  He  was  astounded  at  her  remarks  on 
pragmatism. 

"I  don't  think  cutting  up  truth  into  lots  of  little  bits 
makes  it  more  true,"  she  had  said.  "It  doesn't  seem  as 
true,  somehow.  It's  just  as  if  one  took  a  flower  and 
pulled  it  apart,  and  then  held  it  out  and  said,  'Here  is  a 
flower.'  But  it  isn't  a  flower  any  more.  It's  just  scraps. 
That  is  what  .  .  .  pragmatism,  do  you  call  it?— seems  to 
do.  Of  course  I'm  only  an  ignorant  girl,  but  it  seems 
like  that  to  me,  Owen." 

"It  seems  like  that  to  one  not  ignorant  at  all,"  he  an 
swered,  looking  at  her  with  a  throb  of  tender  pride.  "A 
very  great  man  has  said  much  the  same  thing,  only  not 
in  your  pretty  way."  And  he  got  Eucken's  "The  Truth 
of  Religion"  and  read  her  parts  of  it  that  he  thought 
would  appeal  to  her,  feeling  that  it  would  cost  her  too 
great  an  effort  just  then  to  follow  through  the  heavy 
form  of  the  whole. 

At  one  passage  her  hand  stole  out  and  sought  his  tim 
idly. 

"Read  that  again,"  she  whispered.  And  steadying  his 
voice  by  an  effort  he  did  as  she  asked  and  repeated  the 
words  of  splendid  hope : 

.  "An  ascent  of  life  may  often  result  more  easily  from 
a  precipitous  fall  with  its  scars  than  from  the  stagnation 
of  daily  routine.  Evil  may  exercise  a  stirring  power,  and, 
along  with  this,  point  out  the  path  to  goodness.  Suffering 
and  guilt  may  occasionally  be  conducive  to  the  inner  ad 
vance  of  life  and  to  the  formation  of  a  new  nature." 

This,  together  with  his  saying  that  "we  cannot  explain 
evil,  but  we  can  overcome  it,"  she  stored  away  in  the  ar 
moury  of  wise  words  that  she  was  furnishing  as  a  defence 
against  those  dreadful  thoughts  that  came  like  things  out 
of  the  night  and  dragged  her  down  into  black  places. 

Among  other  things,  he  hunted  up  a  book  little  read 
nowadays  that  he  was  fond  of Sir  Humphry  Davy's 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  231 

"The  Last  Days  of  a  Philosopher,"  and  bade  her  note 
how  strangely  it  presaged  the  Oriental  dreams  that  had 
haunted  London  for  the  past  twenty  years  or  so.  And 
then  he  read  her  Kant  on  ' '  The  Immortality  of  the  Soul, ' ' 
to  show  her  how  a  great  mind  differentiates  between  ratio 
cination  and  intuition. 

She  said  very  wistfully  one  night,  after  one  of  these 
ventures  into  philosophical  speculation: 

''Owen,  dear. — I've  just  had  a  thought  of  my  own.  It's 
a  very  little  thought,  but  it's  all  my  own.  I'd  like  to  tell 
you,  only  I'm  half  ashamed." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  to  his  cheek. 

"Xot  of  me,   sweetheart,   surely." 

""Well,  then  .  .  .  All  these  men,  great  and  wise  as  they 
were,  could  not  have  imagined  a  new  colour  if  they  had 
tried  ever  so  hard.  How,  then,  could  they  have  thought 
that  they  could  imagine  God? — Do  you  see  what  I'm  try 
ing  to  say?" 

He  looked  wonderingly  at  her. 

"That  is  not  a  little  thought,  darling.  Yes  ...  I  see 
what  you  mean." 

"It  seems  to  me."  she  said,  her  eyes  absent,  "that  to 
love  what  is  beautiful  and  hate  what  is  ugly — in  life,  and 
ourselves,  and  others  .  .  .  and  never  to  judge.  ...  It 
seems  to  me  that  is  a  good  religion.  ..." 

"So  it  is,  sweetheart." 

"A  God  that  we  could  understand  wouldn't  be  a  God, — 
He  would  be  no  greater  than  those  who  understood  Him. 
That  is  the  way  I  feel.  I  think  we  just  have  to  trust  what 
is  beautiful — and  ask  it  to  bless  our  sins  to  us. ' ' 

Looking  up  rather  timidly  to  see  whether  he  approved 
her  humble  gropings,  she  surprised  his  eyes  with  tears  in 
them. 

"Oh  .  .  .  are  you  sad?"  she  cried,  her  voice  tender 
and  fallen. 

"No.  It's  just  that  I  love  you  very  dearly.  Very, 
very  dearly,  little  heart." 

She  caught  his  hand  with  the  book  in  it,  and  kissed  it 
in  that  sudden  way  she  had. 

"If  you  love  me  I  can  bear  anything!"  she  said,  and 
he  had  answered : 

"  'If  I  love  you!'  "... 

For  lighter  reading  they  had  the  enchanted  forest  of 
George  Meredith  to  wander  through,  and  he  read  her 


232  WORLD'S-END 

some  of  flie  poets  most  dear  to  him.  She  especially  loved 
the  beautiful  lines  by  Donne : — ' '  The  Undertaking. ' '  Over 
and  over  she  made  him  read  it  to  her : — 


**But  he  who  loveliness  within 

Hath    found     all    outward    loathes, 
For  he  who  colour  loves,  and  skin, 
Loves  but  their  oldest  clothes. 

If,  as  I  have,  you  also  do 

Virtue  in  woman  see, 
A.nd  dare  love  that,  and  Bay  so,  too, 

And  forget  the  He  and  She. 

A.nd  if  this  love,  though  placed  so, 

From  profane  men  you  hide, 
Winch  will  no  faith  on  this  bestow, 

Or,  if  they  do,  deride: 

Then  you  have  done  a  braver  thing 

Than  all  the  Worthies  did: 
A.nd  a  braver  thence  shall  spring, 

Which  is,  to  keep  this  hid." 

When  he  had  finished  reading  it  for  the  first  time,  look 
ing  up  to  see  from  her  expression  whether  it  appealed  to 
her,  he  had  found  her  face  covered  by  her  hands. 

"What  is  it,  darling?"  he  had  asked. 

And  suddenly  she  had  uncovered  her  face,  all  quickened 
and  uplifted. 

"Oh,  I  will  make  myself  all  glorious  within  for  you, 
like  the  King's  daughter!"  she  had  whispered  passion 
ately. 

As  often  happens  with  the  advent  of  a  dreaded  thing, — 
the  transmutation  of  apprehension  into  reality  brought 
with  it  a  species  of  strange  peace.  The  terrible,  unavoid 
able  destiny  had  fallen, — they  were  in  the  net.  What  use 
of  further  struggles? 

Sometimes,  when  Owen  thought  of  what  the  next  six 
months  must  surely  bring,  his  very  flesh  quailed,  and,  as 
for  Phoebe,  she  was  only  able  to  sustain  that  dreadful 
imagination  by  the  hope  that  it  might  result  in  death. 
In  the  meantime  this  beautiful  present  took  on  a  wonder 
ful  glamour,  as  though  in  defiance  of  the  dark  shade  that 
menaced  at  the  crossways.  She  resigned  herself  to  what 
lay  before  her,  being  convinced  now,  as  women  often 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  233 

are,  that  she  would  die  in  childbirth,  and  having  re 
solved  to  confess  all  before  she  died  and  thus  fall  quietly 
asleep  with  his  forgiveness  for  pillow — since  surely  death 
would  bring  her  his  forgiveness. 

A  certain  hateful  problem  Owen  had  had  to  solve  alone. 
The  problem  of  shielding  Phoebe  from  any  breath  of 
scandal  in  regard  to  the  premature  birth  of  the  child  that 
would  be  looked  upon  as  his. 

After  days  and  nights  of  racking  thought  he  had  de 
cided  to  go  to  Dr.  Fulke  with  a  well-ordered  lie.  There 
was  no  other  solution  possible  that  he  could  see,  try  as  he 
might,  and  by  thus  taking  the  experienced  physician  into 
what  would  be  apparently  a  grave  and  intimate  confi 
dence  he  could  command  the  protection  for  Phoebe  which 
could  be  obtained  in  no  other  way. 

So  he  confided  to  Fulke  that,  owing  to  serious  fam 
ily  complications,  he  and  his  wife  had  been  married  pri 
vately  at  a  date  which  antedated  their  public  marriage  by 
two  months.  Afterward  events  had  occurred  which  made 
it  necessary  to  confess  all  to  Mrs.  Randolph's  father.  He 
had  insisted  that  no  one  else  he  told  and  on  the  immediate 
performance  of  a  public  wedding.  Therefore,  Dr.  Fulke 
would  understand  the  grave  difficulty  in  which  they  found 
themselves  at  present. 

Whether  the  great  accoucheur  credited  this  story  or  not 
Owen  could  never  decide.  He  listened  with  discreet  at 
tention,  saying,  "Quite  so,  quite  so,"  at  proper  intervals, 
and,  when  Owen  had  ended,  assured  him  of  the  honour 
that  he  felt  so  grave  a  confidence  to  be. 

';Give  yourself  no  further  uneasiness,"  he  had  then  con 
tinued.  "A  word  from  me  will  keep  Mrs.  Randolph  iso 
lated  from  even  her  most  intimate  friends  until  such  time 
as  I  may  think  fit.  The  Duchess  tells  me  that  she  will  be 
in  Italy  with  her  children  during  February  and  March. 
Have  you  any  near  relative  on  this  side, — persons  who 
may  think  it  their  privilege  to  be  near  Mrs.  Randolph  at 
such  a  time? — The  confinement,  as  I  said,  will  probably 
take  place  during  the  latter  part  of  February." 

When  bald  medical  terms  struck  Owen  on  the  raw  he 
winced,  but  there  wras  nothing  for  it  but  to  sustain  the 
interview  to  the  bitter  end.  As  long  as  he  lived  the 
thought  of  that  stuffy,  pompous  house  in  Harley  Street, 
of  Fulke 's  sagacious,  slightly  over-ingratiating  face  and 
fluent,  sonorous  voice  filled  him  with  sick  disgust  and 


234  WORLD'S-END 

mortification.  He  had  never  before  deliberately  fabricated 
and  carried  out  a  lie.  Had  the  physician  believed  him  as 
on  proofs  of  Holy  "Writ, — still  that  stinging,  mortifying 
doubt  would  have  haunted  him. 

He  left  finally,  having  been  told  by  Fulke  that  the  con 
finement  could  be  stated  to  have  taken  place  prematurely, 
and  that  he  (Fulke)  would  pronounce  the  condition  of 
Mrs.  Randolph  to  be  so  grave  that  no  one  must  see  her 
until  his  authority  had  been  given. 

"Let  us  see,"  he  meditated  finally.  "A  seven-months 
child,  that  would  make  it  ...  Quite  so.  ...  In  two 
months,  not  before, — friends  might  be  permitted  to  see 
mother  and  babe.  Give  yourself  no  further  uneasiness, 
Mr.  Kandolph.  I  will  take  matters  firmly  in  hand  when 
that  ...  a  ...  happy  occasion  arrives." 

And  with  a  smile  meant  to  be  sympathetic,  but  which 
resembled  that  of  a  genial  clergyman  relating  an  anecdote 
slightly  off-colour  to  a  carefully  selected  audience  of  one, 
the  great  man  had  bowed  him  out. 

The  people  who  had  really  grown  fond  of  little  Phoebe 
wrote  her  charming  notes  and  letters  in  her  exile.  Diana, 
of  course,  but  Dempsy  Torrance  also,— Lady  Francie, 
Hadringham,  Rockmorton,  all  sent  her  more  or  less  scrappy 
but  affectionate  missives. 

Hadringham 's  were  written  with  a  quill  pen,  almost  two 
words  to  a  page,  and  illustrated  with  clever  caricatures  of 
the  powers  that  be.  There  was  one,  especially  droll,  of 
himself  speaking  in  Midlothian  to  a  solitary  Scot,  with 
the  "ghaist  of  guid  auld  Wullie"  (thus  Phoebe  learned 
that  some  of  his  old  constituents  alluded  to  the  late  Mr. 
Gladstone) — with  this  august  shade  weeping  tears  of  wrath 
behind  him,  as  the  crowd  rushed  off  after  a  blighting  rep 
resentation  of  the  Duke  of  Wrexborough,  in  a  monthly 
nurse's  cap,  with  the  tariff-reform  in  swaddling-bands 
held  to  his  ducal  chest.  Diana  wrote  in  high  feather. 

"...  I  shall  be  running  down  to  see  you  soon  now, 
darling.  We've  scored  the  most  glorious  victory  in  Mid 
lothian.  That  constituency  has  never  returned  a  Tory 
since  Gladstone  won  it  from  Buccleugh,  you  know."  (As 
if  Phoebe  knew  anything  whatever  of  the  kind ! )  "  Wrex- 
borough  is  simply  chortling  with  glee.  He  says  we  can 
certainly  force  a  dissolution  of  Parliament  in  November, 
now.  But  I  don't  know.  The  Liberals  have  some  dis 
gustingly  strong  men.  Vic  Hadringham  made  a  ripping 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  235 

speech  in  Dundee.  But  all  this  is  just  'piffle'  to  you, 
dear  duekie,  isn't  it?  /  know  what  you're  interested  in! 
• — Mind  it's  to  be  'Phoebe  Diana'  in  case  ...  !"  And  so 
on  and  on.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  dear,"  Phoebe  had  exclaimed  with  some  mourn- 
f ulness  after  Owen  had  explained  to  her  the  meaning  of 
Iladringham's  sketch  and  Diana's  political  allusions.  "If 
wo 're  going  to  be  here  some  time,  I  must  learn  something 
about  it  all.  They're  always  talking  this  sort  of  way, 
and  I  feel  such  a  little  fool.  ..." 

So  Owen  subscribed  to  "The  Times,"  and  "The  Na 
tion,"  as  representing  different  sides  of  the  shield.  And 
Phoebe  ploughed  through  Parliamentary  debates  and  Lib 
eral  and  Tory  leaders  with  indefatigable  if  confused  per 
severance.  The  ideas  which  she  gained  from  this  enforced 
diet  were  not  clear,  but  they  were  certainly  enlarged! 

By  the  same  post  that  brought  Diana's  letter  came  one 
from  Mary  to  Owen  that  fortunately  he  began  to  read 
while  Phoebe  was  absorbed  in  her  own  newrs. 

It  was  headed  "Read  this  when  alone," — and  he  slipped 
it  quietly  into  his  pocket.  He  would  say  that  he  had 
mislaid  it,  if  necessary,  should  Phoebe,  wrho  had  noticed 
the  handwriting,  ask  to  see  it  later. 

"When  he  had  an  opportunity  of  reading  it  he  found 
that  Mary  was  at  World 's-End  with  Sally,  who  had  been 
seriously  ill. 

"I  know  you  don't  like  bad  news  in  broken  doses,  dear 
Owen,"  Mary  wrote.  "So  I  will  tell  you  at  once  that  Dr. 
Patton  says  poor  Sally  has  a  grave  heart-trouble.  She 
will  be  subject  to  these  attacks  all  her  life,  and  must  be 
very,  very  careful.  She  may  live  many  years;  she  might 
go  suddenly.  He  has  told  her  frankly  that  her  heart  is 
involved,  so  that  she  will  be  careful  and  follow  his  in 
structions,  but  of  course  we  haven't  let  her  know  how 
seriously.  I've  thought  that  the  poor  dear  looked  very 
badly  for  a  long  time.  Of  course  it  depresses  her  dread 
fully,  and  Richard's  being  away  makes  it  all  much  worse. 
He's  in  Ceylon  now.  I  didn't  dream  he'd  'stick  it  out' 
so  long.  I've  written  him  of  Sally's  condition  and  hope 
he'll  be  here  before  long.  Sally  never  shows  me  his  let 
ters, — but  they're  written  on  very  thin  paper  and — very 
little  of  it!  This  hurts  her,  of  course.  I  can  see  it, 
though  she  never  hints  at  such  a  thing.  Dear  Owen, — 
don't  mind  if  I  say  something  straight  out  of  my  heart 


236  WORLD'S-END 

to  you.  But  if  you  could  write  Sally  an  old-time-y,  affec 
tionate  letter,  I  think  it  would  do  her  more  good  than  all 
Dr.  Patton's  heart-tonics  put  together.  She  hasn't  shown 
me  your  letters,  either,  but — I  know  how  she  behaved  at 
the  time  of  your  marriage, — poor,  dear,  wrong-headed,  hot- 
tempered  Sally. — And  I  know  you — at  least  I  think  I  do. 
— You  just  get  cool  when  you're  angry, — and  it's  so  much 
harder  to  bear  than  any  other  form  of  wrath.  I  know  as 
if  I'd  read  every  word  just  the  sort  of  pleasant,  'apart' 
letters  you  write  to  Sally.  But  if  you  could  see  her  now 
—there's  something  about  her  that's  horribly  pathetic — • 
like  that  poor,  dull,  droopy  eagle  in  Central  Park  that 
we've  felt  such  righteous  indignation  over, — don't  you  re 
member  ? 

"Well,  then, — write  to  poor,  moping,  caged-eagle  Sally 
as  if  you  still  loved  her, — for  I  know  you  do,  under  all 
your  vexation, — which  is  so  natural!  Even  now,  when  I 
know  how  ill  she  is, — she  gets  my  own  tolerable  little 
temper  on  its  hind  legs  sometimes.  But  she'd  really  go 
straight  to  your  heart  if  you  could  see  her.  I  don't  know 
a  lonelier  soul  in  the  world  than  hers.  Even  I,  whom  she's 
so  fond  of,  seem  only  to  reach  her  through  a  medium  like 
thick,  clear  glass.  You  have  been  nearer  to  her  than  any 
one  else,  I  think,  so  don't  leave  her  to  eat  that  sick  heart 
of  hers  in  isolation. ' ' 

As  Owen  read  these  words  a  warm  breath  from  the 
garden  of  childhood  stole  over  him.  How  often  Sally  had 
forgiven  him,  and  he  her,  in  those  old  days! — Memory 
writes  with  strange  invisible  ink.  The  acid  of  anger  gets 
only  on  its  unlovely  records,  setting  them  sharp  and  black 
against  the  page;  but  pity  brings  forth  kindly,  tender 
phrases, — poignant  trivialities  of  affectionate  forbearance 
and  unselfishness. 

Before  he  \vent  to  bed  that  night  he  wrote  his  sister 
a  long,  affectionate  letter  full  of  their  news  (all  except 
that  of  Phoebe's  condition)  and  the  gossip  of  people  in 
high  places,  which  he  knew  amused. 


XXXII 

''TOWARDS  the  middle  of  February  they  left  Wyckthorn 
•*•    and  went  to  the  pleasant  lodgings  that  he  had  fur 
nished  in  Half-Moon  Street. 


WORLD'S-END  237 

The  day  on  which  Phoebe's  child  was  born  was  one  of 
those  London  days  of  greyish-yellow  fog  through  which 
the  sun  glowers  like  a  great  cat's  eye. 

As  if  to  cheer  the  weather  and  the  occasion,  the  maid 
had  lighted  so  hot  a  fire  in  the  dining-room  that  Owen, 
sitting  down  alone  to  a  meal  that  had  the  tastelessness  of 
food  in  dreams,  was  compelled  to  have  the  windows  opened. 
The  saffron  murk  streamed  in  through  them  like  smoke, 
and  that  dense,  penetrating  smell  of  soot  which  clings 
even  in  foreign  lands  to  books  and  stuffs  that  come  from 
London  filled  his  throat  and  nostrils. 

Doctor  Fulke  had  just  been  'phoned  for  by  Nurse  King. 
No,  Mrs.  Randolph  was  not  suffering.  .  .  .  All  was  going 
on  very  well.  Nurse  Stebbins  would  arrive  with  the  doc 
tor  in  half  an  hour.  Mr.  Randolph  could  go  in  now  and 
speak  to  Mrs.  Randolph  if  he  wished. 

lie  went  with  a  painfully  tightened  heart. 

Phoebe  was  propped  up  against  the  pillows,  her  eyes 
very  fised  and  bright,  a  little  moth's-wing  of  dry,  vivid 
colour  close  beneath  them.  She  smiled  when  she  saw  him, 
and  as  he  bent  over  and  took  her  hand,  timidly,  said: 

"Don't  worry.  ...     I'm  not  afraid." 

And  she  kept  saying  "I'm  not  afraid.  ...  I'm  not 
afraid,"  until  Nurse  King  made  him  a  sign  with  her  eye- 
browa  to  leave  the  room. 

Owen  went  back  to  the  dining-room,  but  the  butler  was 
there  clearing  away  the  breakfast  things,  so  he  took  refuge 
in  the  little  room,  fitted  up  half  as  library,  half  as  boudoir 
for  Phoebe,  where  he  was  used  to  read  aloud  to  her  while 
she  rested  on  the  big  lounge.  Tcherkoff's  play,  "The 
Cherry  Garden,"  lay  face  down  on  one  of  the  cushions, 
where  he  had  placed  it  when  she  went  to  bed  the  night 
before.  He  took  it  up  and  began  mechanically  reading 
where  they  had  left  off;  one  of  the  old,  obvious  questions 
that  haunt  such  moments  beating  in  his  mind :  Shall  we 
ever  finish  it  together? — He  let  the  book  drop,  and,  sit 
ting  down  on  the  lounge,  buried  his  face  in  the  cushions. 
They  smelt  of  the  lavender  water  that  she  used  on  her 
hair,  and  he  sprang  up  again  and  began  to  walk  the  room. 

He  had  read  a  hundred  times  of  men  in  his  position, 
yet  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  greatest  efforts  of  genius 
to  express  what  he  was  now  feeling  had  been  only  clever 
literature.  Yet  they  were  dreadful  enough  in  all  con 
science — and  he  recalled  with  a  shudder  the  account  in 


238  WORLD'S-END 

"War  and  Peace"  of  the  little  princess's  death  in  child 
birth.  Levin's  distracted  torment  over  Kitty  in  like  case 
also  came  back  to  him.  lie  shuddered  as  he  thought  that 
he  might  have  to  listen  to  dreadful  cries  later  on, — cries 
wrung  by  an  anguish  which  neither  he  nor  any  other  being 
could  stay.  It  was  the  brutal  inevitableness  of  the  thing 
which  seemed  to  him  most  crushing.  lie  remembered  with 
another  shudder  what  Fulke  himself  had  said  to  him  only 
a  day  or  two  ago, — by  way  of  consolation  he  realised  with 
a  wry  smile, — namely,  that  were  the  pains  of  child-birth 
pathological  instead  of  natural  scarcely  a  woman  would 
survive. 

He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  No  sign 
of  Fulke 's  motor  as  yet.  .  .  .  Was  that  a  cry?  .  .  . 
He  stopped  short,  his  breathing  checked.  Ah,  it  was 
only  Nurse  King  calling  for  America  to  bring  hot 
water. 

He  and  the  doctor  had  decided  that  there  would  be  no 
danger  in  America's  remaining  with  her  mistress.  She 
was  a  young,  unmarried  woman  with  a  straight  record, — 
(Aunt  Patty  and  Uncle  Burrell  had  taught  her  chastity 
"with  briers,"  so  to  speak) — and  very  ignorant  of  all 
facts,  scientific  or  otherwise,  connected  with  such  matters 
as  the  one  in  progress  today.  She  was  badly  frightened 
now,  but  such  was  her  devotion  to  Phoebe  that  she  would 
not  for  worlds  have  been  anywhere  but  near  her  at  such 
a  time.  With  droll  pathos  she  had  stuffed  her  black  ears 
already  with  cotton- wool  so  that,  in  case  her  "sweet  sugar- 
lady"  cried  out,  she  should  not  hear  it. 

It  seemed  hours  to  Owen  before  Fulke  came. 

He  remained  in  Phoebe's  room  about  half  an  hour,  then 
came  out,  followed  by  the  second  nurse,  a  dumpy,  sweet- 
looking  soul  of  about  fifty,  with  a  slight  cast  in  her  mild 
brown  eyes,  and  slim,  energetic  hands.  She  was  really  the 
nurse  in  charge.  Diana  had  wanted  to  send  a  woman, 
her  own  old  nurse,  who  always  looked  after  her  in  ad 
dition  to  professional  nurses  at  such  times,  but  Dr.  Fulke 
had  said  that  in  this  case  he  preferred  that  Nurse  Steb- 
bins  should  take  charge. 

— Owen  waited  until  she  had  returned  to  Phoebe's 
room  and  then  approached  the  doctor. 

"All  is  going  admirably  .  .  .  admirably  ..."  said  the 
latter,  speaking  the  moment  that  he  caught  sight  of  Owen's 
pale,  strained  face.  "A  braver  little  lady  I  never  saw. 


WORLD'S-END  239 

You  can  put  every  confidence  in  Nurse  Stebbins.  I  shall 
return  in  an  hour  or  so.  .  .  . " 

"  'An  hour  or  so!'  " 

Owen  felt  suddenly  as  though  all  London  had  swayed 
a  little,  as  at  the  tail-end  of  an  earthquake.  "You're  not 
going  .  .  J" 

Lindsay  Fulke  smiled  the  compassionate,  slightly  su 
perior  smile  which  he  reserved  for  unreasonable  husbands 
in  such  instances. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Randolph,  your  good  lady  will  not  need 
my  services  for  some  hours  yet.  Indeed,  she  is  so  re 
markably  brave  and  strong  that  I  think  Dame  Nature 
could  take  care  of  her  without  my  assistance.  Except  that 
you  had  exacted  a  promise  from  me,  I  should  not  return 
until" — he  consulted  his  watch  on  its  broad  black  fob — 
"until  at  least  one  o'clock.  As  it  is,  I  shall  be  with  you 
again  by  eleven." 

"Good  God!  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  she  will  have 
to  suffer  all  that  time?  That  it  won't  be  over  before  one 
o'clock?" 

The  perspiration  stood  on  Owen's  forehead.  He  caught 
his  lip  in  his  teeth.  "It's  damnable!"  he  said  in  a  choked 
voice. 

Fulke  put  his  hand  on  his  arm. 

"You  must  face  facts,  my  dear  sir,"  said  he.  "Mrs. 
Randolph  is  doing  nicely, — very  nicely  indeed.  Your  in 
experience  makes  you  unnecessarily  anxious."  Nurse 
King  here  came  out  again  and  they  persuaded  Owen  that 
the  doctor  could  do  nothing  for  Phoebe  at  present. 

Owen  awoke  suddenly  to  the  fact  that  both  had  the 
most  heartless  faces  he  had  ever  seen.  Nurse  King's  was 
perfectly  impassive,  she  even  smiled  a  little.  Still  worse 
was  a  certain  expression  of  preoccupation  on  Fulke 's  san 
guine,  intelligent  countenance,  set  neatly  between  grey 
mutton-chop  whiskers.  Owen  told  himself  bitterly  that 
butchers  had  just  such  amiably  heartless  expressions. 

He  went  back  into  the  dining-room  when  the  doctor  had 
left,  and  found  America  crouching  over  the  fire,  rocking 
to  and  fro  and  nursing  her  brown  face  in  both  hands,  as 
though  she  had  a  toothache. 

"What  are  you  doing  here? — Aren't  you  needed  in  the 
other  room?"  he  asked  sharply. 

She  burst  into  forlorn  sobs. 

"I  don'  want  Miss  Phoebe  to  have  no  horrid  ole  baby!" 


240  WORLD'S-END 

ahe  wailed.  "My  po',  precious,  own  sugar-lady!  God's 
mean!  I  don't  ivant  her  to  have  no  baby!" 

"America  .  .  ."he  began  sternly.  His  lips  shook.  He 
turned  and  went  out  into  the  narrow  corridor  that  led 
past  his  own  bedroom  to  the  bathroom  at  the  back  of  the 
house.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  paced  this  corridor  for 
hours.  Listening,  with  checked  heart  about  which  the 
blood  felt  clotted,  for  some  dreadful  cry  to  reach  him,  he 
was  torn  between  two  thoughts.  The  thought  that  he 
thanked  God  he  was  not  responsible  for  her  present  an 
guish  .  .  .  the  dreadful  reactive  thought  of  how  another 
man  was  responsible — the  thought  of  Richard  as  the  father 
of  the  child  that  was  perhaps  even  now  rending  away  her 
life.  Up  and  down  he  walked — up  and  down,  for  hours, 
days,  ages — how  could  he  tell? 

Hark!  That  was  a  door  opening  .  .  .  were  they  com 
ing  to  tell  him  that  she  was  dead?  It  was  Nurse  King 
again.  And  now  her  face  looked  kinder.  She  was  not 
smiling. 

"Mrs.  Randolph  is  asking  for  you,  sir.  ..." 

He  could  not  go  quickly  enough.  He  ran, — his  lip  be 
tween  his  teeth.  He  was  frightened,  horribly  frightened. 
What  dreadful  sight  would  he  be  called  to  look  upon? 
But  she  wanted  him.  That  was  enough.  .  .  . 

She  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  gripping  a 
chair  with  both  hands.  He  saw  the  little  knuckles  yellow- 
white  with  that  desperate  grip.  Her  hair  lay  in  wet 
strands  across  her  forehead.  But  her  eyes  blazed,  wonder 
ful,  as  if  on  fire,  in  her  pinched,  flushed  face.  And,  as 
familiar  as  that  face  was,  yet  it  seemed  somehow  the  face 
of  a  stranger.  This  was  a  Phoebe  that  he  had  never  seen. 
Nurse  Stebbins  stood  just  behind  her,  coaxing  her  in  a  low, 
steady  voice  to  lie  down. 

"Phoebe  .  .  .  my  darling  ...  I  am  here.  What  is 
it?"  he  cried,  running  to  her. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  ...  to  tell  you  .  .  .  before  I  die. 
..."  Suddenly  she  cast  a  wild  glance  all  about,  as 
though  for  help.  Then  she  stammered : 

"No!     No!     Go  away.  ...     Go  away.  ..." 

Nurse  Stebbins  flung  her  arms  about  her. 

"Go,  sir.  .  .  .     You'd  better  go  now.  ..." 

But  Phoebe  had  recovered  for  the  time  being.  With 
great  drops  trickling  down  her  little  ghastly  face,  she 
tried  to  speak  coherently. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  241 

"I'm  not  afraid,  but  I  must  tell  him.  ...  I  must  tell 
him.  ...  I  can't  die  until  I've  told  him.  ..." 

"My  darling!  My  own  little  Phoebe,  there's  nothing 
that  you  could  tell  me  would  make  a  straw  of  difference! 
Nothing  .  .  .  nothing.  .  .  .  Nurse,  can't  you  get  her  to 
lie  down?  Let  mo  help  you  to  your  bed,  my  poor  dar- 
ling." 

Heedless  of  them  both,  she  kept  stammering.  "I  must 
tell  you.  ...  I  can't  die  till  I've  told  you.  .  .  .  Send 
her  away.  ...  I  must  tell  you  alone  ...  all  alone.  ..." 

Owen  was  at  his  wits'  end.     He  turned  to  the  nurse. 

"Could  you  leave  us  a  moment,  nurse?  Would  it  be 
safe?" 

She  answered  in  a  discreet  murmur: 

"She  hardly  knows  what  she's  saying,  sir.  I  think 
you'd  better  slip  out  quietly,  the  first  chance." 

Suddenly  Phoebe  loosed  her  desperate  hold  r  f  the  chair. 
She  reached  out  with  her  little  hands  that  were  cramped 
from  the  fierce  clutching,  and  seized  the  breast  of  his  coat. 

"Forgive  .  .  .  forgive  ..."  she  stuttered.  Then  the 
blood  rushed  over  her  face  in  a  dark  wave.  She  loosed 
him,  beat  the  air  with  her  hands.  .  .  .  Between  them,  he 
and  the  nurse  got  her  to  the  bed. 

"You'd  better  go  now,  sir.     You  can't  help.  ..." 

He  went  out,  stumbling  at  the  door.  He  felt  deathly, 
physically  sick,  and  his  heart  was  like  lead  with  helpless 
pity. 

He  went  again  through  the  dining-room  on  his  way  to 
the  corridor.  The  negress  was  now  lying  face  down  on  the 
hearth-rug,  her  hands  over  her  ears,  yet  there  had  been  no 
cries  coining  from  that  closed  room.  This  strange  silence 
was  almost  worse  than  cries.  He  looked  at  America  with 
a  sudden  feeling  of  tenderness.  But  he  could  not  speak, 
lie  passed  on  into  the  corridor.  Now  he  lengthened  his 
walk  to  its  utmost  limit,  and,  reaching  the  bathroom  win 
dow,  he  gazed  down  at  the  murky  maze  of  London  spread 
ing  on  every  side.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  houses,  hun 
dreds  of  thousands  of  women  in  them, — many  enduring  at 
this  moment  what  she — his  dear,  his  "winsome,"  as  she 
loved  him.  to  call  her — was  enduring  there  in  that  room, 
with  its  ghastly  array  of  white  linen.  And  as  the  thought 
of  Richard  lashed  him  again  he  knew  that  to  kill  him 
simply  would  not  suffice;  that  torture  was  the  only  thing 
that  could  satiate  this  famished  rage  in  himself — this 


242  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

thirst  for  retaliation,  for  the  assuaging  glut  of  retribu 
tion.  The  old,  fierce  death  by  quartering — the  four  mad 
dened  horses  dragging  the  human  flesh  asunder  .  .  .  that 
would  be  the  death  for  her  betrayer — for  the  bowelless 
Wretch  that  had  brought  her  to  this  pass. 

Dr.  Fulke  returned,  left  again  for  an  hour,  again  re 
turned.  This  time  he  stated  his  intention  of  remaining 
until  Mrs.  LN--tudolph  was  delivered. 

Five  o'clock  had  come.  America  brought  Owen  a  cup 
of  scalding  tea  into  the  corridor,  and  stood  by  like  a  faith 
ful,  fierce  little  dog  until  he  had  drunk  it.  Her  big  eyes, 
all  puffy  from  weeping,  looked  like  horse-chestnuts  glis 
tening  between  their  split  brown  hulls.  .  .  .  Then  she 
Went  away  again.  As  she  opened  the  door  into  the  din 
ing-room — heavy,  cloying,  nauseating,  the  smell  of  ether 
stole  through  the  whole  apartment. 

"Thank  God  ..."  thought  Owen,  with  a  deep  breath. 
"Thank  God  .  .  .  they're  giving  her  ether.  ..."  His 
mind  went  on,  working  feverishly,  automatically.  "We're 
ungrateful  wretches.  The  name  of  the  man  who  invented 
anaesthetics  ought  to  be  better  known  than  Shakespeare's. 
There  ought  to  be  statues.  ...  I  will  give  a  statue  to 
him  myself.  .  .  .  Men  are  ungrateful  dogs.  .  .  .  Who 
knows  his  name?  I  don't.  .  .  .  I've  heard  it,  but  I've 
forgotten.  .  .  .  They  used  to  strap  people  to  tables  and 
carve  them  like  beef.  .  .  .  Now  there  is  ether — chloro 
form.  .  .  .  Yet  we  don't  remember  the  man's  name!  .  .  . 
I'd  rather  have  been  that  man  than  any  who  ever  lived. 
,  .  .  But  there  were  several.  .  .  .  Any  one  of  them, 
then.  .  .  .  All's  quiet  now.  .  .  .  The  ether  .  .  .  the 
ether  .  .  .  the  ether.  .  .  .  Thank  God  for  ether  .  .  . 
ether  .  .  .  ether.  ..." 

.  „  .  He  went  to  the  window  of  the  bathroom  and  looked 
down  again  rL,  the  town,  now  but  a  dark,  roaring  chaos, 
pricked  by  innumerable  lights  all  blurred  with  fog.  He 
thought  of  the  bits  of  paper  that  his  mother  used  to  burn 
for  him  on  the  nursery  hearth  at  World 's-End.  The  sparks 
of  their  soft  black  surface,  as  the  flame  died  out,  were 
like  these  lights  of  London  on  the  sooty  darkness.  And  as 
he  stared  at  the  great  leviathan  of  the  town  crouched 
there  below  him  in  the  night, — it  seemed  to  him  that  a 
Vast  spirit  hung  above  it, — the  composite  wraith  of  all 
those  millions  of  tiny  souls  that  went  to  make  its  huge 
ness — the  invisible  molecules  in  the  vast  ego  that  wras 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  243 

London.  Darkly  it  brooded  there,  the  sinister  sum-total, 
the  one  unique, — bodiless  yet  more  powerful  than  any 
bulk  of  brawn  and  sinew — the  soul,  as  it  were,  of  the  in 
comparable,  unspeakable  town,  formed  of  the  millions  of 
little  severed  souls,  that  fared  feverishly,  each  wrapped 
in  its  nursery-dream  of  separate  individuality, — in  what 
the  Bralimans  call  the  "great  heresy  of  self."  .  .  . 

A  door  opened  and  shut.  .  .  .  Another.  .  .  .  Footsteps 
A-'ent  to  and  fro.  AVere  they  seeking  for  him  to  tell  him 
that  she  was  dead?  Yes  .  .  .  there  ...  in  the  light  of 
the  corridor  he  saw  the  gleam  of  a  nurse 's  cap.  .  .  .  Nurse 
King's  voice  called: 

1 '  Mr.  Randolph  !     Mr.  Randolph  ! ' ' 

He  came  forward  with  his  ashen  face  and  wet  forehead, 
and  stood  dumbly  staring  at  her. 

"Ah.  it's  you,  sir.  Dr.  Fulkc  sent  me  to  tell  you  that 
you  have  a  line  little  daughter,  sir.  Mrs.  Randolph  has 
had  a  beautiful  time. — And  she's  been  so  brave — not  even 
one  cry !— I  've  never  seen  the  like  of  it. ' ' 

When  he  was  admitted  to  her  room,  some  hours  later,  it 
was  all  sweet  and  fragrant  with  the  homely  perfume  of 
orris  and  warm  flannel.  A  shaded  lamp  burned  on  the 
floor,  but  in  the  reflection  from  the  big  round  of  light  cast 
by  it  on  the  white  ceiling  he  could  see  her  clearly  as  she 
lay,  long  and  slim,  in  the  fresh,  pure  bed.  And,  first  of 
all,  he  was  struck  by  her  virginal  look  as  of  a  little  snow- 
maid,  lying  there  with  her  baby  upon  one  languid  arm, 
scarcely  curved  to  hold  it.  Even  in  motherhood  she  was 
Helen's  daughter. 

Nurse  Stebbins  slipped  out  as  he  came  in,  and  he  went 
and  knelt  beside  the  bed.  Not  even  daring  to  feel  for  her 
free  hand  under  the  bedclothes,  he  pressed  his  lips  to  the 
quilt  of  pale  blue  silk  that  outlined  her  slight  body.  With 
a  little  human  thrill  of  relieved  jealousy,  he  saw  that  the 
child  was  not  at  her  breast, — for  in  his  ignorance  he  did 
not  know  that  a  woman  may  not  suckle  her  child  until  sev 
eral  days  after  its  birth. 

—Her  eyes,  soft,  shining,  assuaged,  imploring,  yet 
strangely  exultant,  stole  up  to  his.  Her  little  face,  puri 
fied  by  God  only  knew  what  wild  fires  of  anguish  and 
initiation,  smiled  shyly,  tremulously.  Down  in  the  deeps 
of  that  anguish  which  holds  the  mystery  of  life  all  had 
been  swept  from  Phoebe  but  the  one  new,  overwhelming 
sense  of  motherhood.  For  the  present  remorse  and  shame 


244  WORLD'S-END 

were  forgotten.  It  seemed  as  though  she  had  plunged 
under  a  dark  river  which  had  cast  her  on  a  far  shore  with 
her  baby,  giving  her  temporarily  the  supreme  gift  of 
oblivion. 

Even  the  sight  of  Owen's  moved  face  did  not  break  the 
surface  of  the  still  pool  of  mother-love  in  which  she  seemed 
to  float,  absolved  from  all  physical  and  mental  pain  for 
the  time  being. 

"My  sweet  .  .  .  my  winsome  .  .  ."he  whispered,  tears 
starting  from  his  eyes.  One  fell  upon  the  hand  that  she 
had  drawn  from  beneath  the  bedclothes  and  clasped 
weakly  about  his  big  fingers.  She  lifted  it  and  kissed 
away  the  tear.  Her  lips  formed  words,  but  so  low  that 
he  had  to  bend  his  ear  close  to  catch  them. 

''Do  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  love  me?" 

He  caught  the  little  nerveless  hand  and  pressed  it 
passionately  to  his  lips  and  eyes,  and  again  it  was  all  wet 
with  tears. 

"Then  .  .  .  look,"  she  said,  and  her  lowered  eyelids 
showed  him  where  she  would  have  him  look. 

Yes,  the  inevitable  moment  was  come.  He  had  forefelt 
it  often  with  anguish  and  vain  shrinking.  Now  it  was 
here. 

Bending  forward,  her  hand  still  to  his  cheek,  he  looked 
down  on  the  little  creature  in  its  cocoon  of  soft  white 
flannel.  It  was  what  some  nurses  call  a  "waxen  baby." 
Like  a  little  image  of  purest  wax  it  looked,  its  lashes  mak 
ing  two  dark  lines  like  circumflex  accents  on  its  tiny  face; 
its  faintly  rosed  mouth  sucking  in  sleep.  And  upon 
its  brow,  just  peeping  from  the  warm  flannel,  lay  a  little 
down  of  gold,  like  pollen  on  a  white  flower  leaf.  And 
there,  as  Phoebe,  in  her  strange  new  pride,  pressed  the 
bedclothes  further  back, — there,  almost  incredibly  perfect, 
was  a  little  hand,  with  bud-like  thumb  and  petal  fingers; 
with  nails  as  perfectly  finished  and  polished  as  though 
the  most  skilful  manicure  in  London  had  just  been  tending 
them.  And  this  little  hand  moved  him  with  an  odd 
yet  profound  and  pitiful  tenderness.  He  had  thought 
to  hate  this  child — to  have  to  do  fierce  battle  with  instinc 
tive  loathing, — yet  now,  at  sight  of  that  tiny  hand, 
so  perfectly,  almost  absurdly,  finished, — all  that  stirred 
in  his  heart  was  this  feeling  of  pity  and  tender 
ness. 

"Feel  it — how  soft  it  is  .  .  ."  whispered  Phoebe. 


WORLD'S-END  245 

And  he  ventured  to  touch,  with  one  of  his  big  fingers  the 

ridiculously  perfect  little  hand. 

The  finger-petals  spread,  waved  feebly.     He  moved  his 

finger  down  against  them ;  instantly  they  closed  tight  about 

it,  and  a  queer  thrill  ran  up  his  arm  to  his  heart. 
He  heard  Phoebe's  low,  passionate  whisper: 
"Oh,  love  her  .  .  .  love  her  .  .  .  please.  .  .  ." 
He  stooped  lower  and  kissed  the  little  hand  clenched  so 

determinedly  about  his  finger. 

Then  Nurse  Stebbins  came  in  again,  and  said,  smiling, 

that  he  must  go. 


XXXIII 

OALLY  had  r.nswered,  under  a  hot  impulse,  Richard's 
^  letter,  written  just  before  he  sailed.  This  answer  waa 
stern  and  indignant,  full  of  bitter  reproaches  and  harsh 
irony,  and  in  it  she  made  known  her  implacable  resolve 
that  he  should  marry  Phoebe ; — no  matter  how  far  he  fled 
• — (what  hurt  her,  perhaps,  most  cruelly  of  all,  she  said, 
was  that  her  sou  should  play  the  coward) — nor  how  long 
he  delayed  the  issue ; — that  and  that  alone  could  modify 
her  utter,  her  heart-broken  disappointment  in  him.  He 
knew  well  how  she  had  dreaded  an  early  marriage  for  him, 
— any  marriage,  in  fact,  unless  one  of  exceptional  promise, 
— when  he  should  be  at  least  thirty-five, — let  him  judge, 
then,  what  must  be  the  state  of  her  feelings  when  she 
assured  him  from  the  inmost  depths  of  her  soul  that  this 
marriage  was  his  only  means  of  escape  from  her  absolute 
contempt.  There  were  pages  and  pages  of  this  letter, 
written  in  her  querulous,  pointed  hand,  in  which  the  a'e 
and  d's  were  never  closed,  and  the  crossings  of  the  t's 
soared  high  above  the  line,  like  the  bent  curves  that  chil 
dren  make  to  represent  birds  flying;  but  this  statement  of 
her  fixed  resolve  in  regard  to  his  marrying  Phoebe  was 
the  gist  of  all  its  wrathful  scorn  and  stinging  denunci 
ation. 

Richard  was  sheltering  with  Stokes  from  the  intoler 
able  heat  of  i\  Chinese  August  in  the  bungalow  of  some 
friends  at  Swatow,  when  he  received  this  letter,  and  ai 
he  finished  reading  it  and  crumpled  it  back  into  its  thin 
sheath  lined  with  oiled  paper  (Sally  had  been  determined 
that  no  mischance  of  weather  should  destroy  it  during  its 


246  WORLD'S -END 

long  voyage)  he  felt  as  though  he  must  take  the  next 
steamer  back  to  America  in  order  to  bring  his  personality 
to  bear  directly  upon  his  mother.  She  had  never  yet,  in 
the  long  run,  been  able  to  resist  that  subtle,  invisible  force 
which  his  presence  exerted  over  her.  But  the  next  instant 
he  thanked  whatever  gods  there  be  that  he  had  had  the 
lucky  inspiration  of  this  journey  with  Stokes.  Otherwise 
— and  he  shivered  with  indignant  repulsion — otherwise  he 
might  at  this  very  instant  be  cast  in  the  play  of  life  for  the 
role  of  husband — that  part,  to  him,  so  lugubriously  middle- 
class  and  lacking  in  all  spiritual  eclat.  The  superiority 
of  Jehovah  to  Jove,  in  that  the  former  was  an  unwedded 
deity,  had  made  him  often  declare  that  the  Hebrews  had 
a  far  more  distinguished  mythological  imagination  than 
the  Greeks.  No — nature  had  not  endowed  him  with  his 
unique,  super-original  personality,  to  case  it  in  the  motley 
of  a  " husband."  Domesticity  was  surely  the  most  crass 
affront  that  civilisation  had  ever  offered  to  genius.  Be 
sides — had  his  mother  really  become  his  enemy — that  she 
should  propose  that  he,  with  his  subtle,  costly  tastes,  that 
were  as  the  breath  of  life  to  him,  that,  in  fact,  constituted 
his  being  as  distinct  from  other  beings — with  Ids  necessity 
for  exquisite  and  appropriate  surroundings,  on  an  allow 
ance  of  only  eight  thousand  a  year — that  she  should  pro 
pose  marriage  for  him  with  a  penniless  girl? 

In  the  end  the  whole  thing  amounted  to  this — he  was 
to  choose  between  genius  and  domesticity — domesticity, 
moreover,  made  doubly  -  oppressive  by  poverty.  Eight 
thousand  a  year  as  a  means  of  artistic  subsistence  for  one 
was  meagre  enough,  the  gods  of  art  knew  well — but  eight 
thousand  shared  with  a  wife  and  children.  .  .  .  Richard 
shivered  again  in  the  muggy  August  air,  gazing  out  over 
the  lovely  port  of  Swatow,  now  twinkling  through  the 
heat-haze  with  its  pretty  island,  where  they  dined  some 
times  in  the  cool  grey  of  the  evening. 

It  assuaged  him  a  little  to  realise  that  he  stood  on 
ground  so  far  from  Virginia  and  that  his  perturbed  gaze 
rested  on  Chinese  waters.  It  took  over  a  month  for  let 
ters  to  reach  America  from  here.  By  the  time  his  reply 
found  her  his  mother  would  be  in  a  more  reasonable  mood. 
He  would  put  it  to  her — but,  of  course,  with  delicate  indi 
rection — whether  she  really  contemplated  asking  him  to 
tear  off  the  wings  of  his  genius  with  his  own  hands.  And 
he  thought  of  those  who  to  him  were  the  greatest  ones  on 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  2 17 

earth,  Nietzsche,  Alexander,  Leonardo,  Machiavelli,  Cs- 
sare  Borgia,  Baudelaire,  Napoleon — would  they  have  flung 
aside  their  "birthright  for  the  mess  of  domestic  pottage? — 
Did  not  life  teach  the  true  artist  to  be  even  more  ruth 
less  to  others  and  himself — rather  than  kinder,  as  that 
gifted  bourgeois,  Goethe,  had  said?  And,  now  that  he 
thought  of  it,  Goethe  himself  had  not  evolved  that  maxim 
of  kindness  until  he  had  passed  over  the  dead  bodies  of 
many  a  wayside  love.  Fancy  what  the  world  would  have 
lost  had  Goethe's  mother  insisted  on  his  marrying  one  of 
his  early  flames!  The  world  of  art  would  have  suffered 
even  more  than  Goethe  himself,  but  the  pangs  of  both 
would  have  been  irreparable.  No,  it  was  a  great  lesson  in 
the  super-moral  moralities  that  Dostoievsky  had  meant  to 
symbolise  in  " Le  Crime  ct  le  Chdtiment" — in  that  terri 
ble  and  brutal  test  of  murder  which  the  hero  sets  himself. 
To  prove  strength,  whether  by  single  murders,  as  Ras- 
kolnikoff  did,  or  by  wholesale  slaughter,  as  had  been  the 
method  of  Napoleon — that  was  the  essential  thing.  The 
wretched  "Praying  Mantis"  devoured  by  the  female  in 
the  very  act  of  submissive  love,  such  should  be  the  em 
blem  of  all  husbands. 

He  felt  calmed  by  these  reflections,  and  during  inter 
vals  of  the  next  two  days  inscribed  to  his  mother  the 
third  lengthy  epistle  that  he  had  ever  written,  in  which 
all  these  ideas  were  skilfully  embodied. 

Long  before  Richard's  letter  reached  her,  however,  the 
extreme  bitterness  of  his  mother's  resentment  against  him 
had  waned.  The  crisis  of  impotent  rage  evoked  in  her 
by  Owen's  marriage  with  Phoebe  had  its  natural  reaction, 
and  in  this  reaction  an  unreasoning  pity  for  the  son  who 
by  it  had  been  deprived  of  what  she  had  come  to  consider 
his  birthright  softened  her  feelings  towards  him.  After 
all,  wiser  and  older  men  than  he  had  succumbed  to  pas 
sions  which  had  wrecked  their  lives;  and  she  thought  of 
Parnell  and  the  tragic  story  of  his  career,  ruined  by  an 
unlawful  love. — Still,  in  the  very  sources  of  her  being,  the 
knowledge  that  her  son  had  acted  with  cowardice  and 
baseness  was  like  a  bitter  dust  clouding  the  waters. 

Sometimes,  in  the  midst  of  her  own  pain,  she  wondered 
to  what  extent  he  suffered,  for  she  would  not  admit  even 
to  herself  that  possibly  Richard  had  not  felt  more  than 
passing  qualms  of  anger  at  having  yielded  to  so  unwise 
and  dangerous  an  impulse.  She  insisted  upon  picturing 


248  WORLD'S-END 

him  as  a  victim  of  remorse,  and  persuaded  herself  that  in 
time,  despite  all  his  violent  aversion,  he  would  of  himself 
have  come  to  marriage  with  the  girl  as  the  only  reparation 
possible  to  his  own  manhood  as  well  as  to  her.  And, 
shrinking  from  dealing  him  the  fresh  blow  that  news  of 
his  uncle's  marriage  would  bring  him,  she  delayed  telling 
him  until  two  months  after  Owen  and  Phoebe  had  sailed. 

This  letter,  posted  during  the  middle  of  September, 
reached  Bombay  after  Richard  had  left,  and  was  for 
warded  by  the  clerk  in  the  hotel;  unfortunately,  however, 
the  Babu  confused  the  address  with  that  of  another  trav 
eller,  and  Richard  never  received  it.  His  next  home-news 
came  from  Mary,  and  consisted  of  an  account  of  his 
mother's  illness.  She  begged  him  to  return  as  soon  as 
possible,  as  she  (Mary)  thought  that  Sally  was  fretting 
for  him,  though  she  never  said  so. 

And  now,  indeed,  Richard  really  suffered.  His  affec 
tion  for  his  mother  was  the  one  really  sound  and  vital 
feeling  in  his  life.  He  could  but  think  that  this  sudden 
illness  was  in  great  part,  if  not  wholly,  due  to  him,  and 
with  a  wretched  and  belated  remorse  tugging  at  his  heart 
he  took  the  next  steamer  for  Brindisi. 

On  the  Cunarder  at  Naples  was  a  Southerner  named 
Grierson,  a  bumptious,  over-genial  person,  whom  Richard 
in  his  present  mood  took  special  pains  to  avoid.  But 
the  second  day  out,  as  they  were  nearing  Gibraltar,  Grier 
son,  who  was  standing  with  a  woman  at  the  taffrail,  leaned 
behind  her  and  offered  his  field-glasses  to  Richard. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  thank  him  and  stare 
through  them.  When  he  turned  to  give  back  the  glasses 
the  woman  had  disappeared  and  he  was  tete-a-tete  writh 
Grierson. 

"Ever  up  there?"  asked  the  latter,  with  a  jerk  of  the 
head  towards  the  Rock. 

"No,"  said  Richard. 

"I've  been.  Glad  I  went,  now,  though  it  was  an  awful 
bore.  So  hot  between  those  high  walls  going  up  that  the 
Missus  fainted.  But  no  one  can  go  now,  so  I'm  glad 
I  did  go." 

"Naturally,"  said  Richard. 

He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  pass  on,  but  Grierson 
said: 

"Hold  on  a  minute.  I'm  a  great  admirer  of  that 
cracked  uncle  of  yours.  Most  public-spirited  private 


WORLD'S-END  249 

citizen  in  the  South.  And  I've  a  friend  wants  to  consult 
him  about  some  pretty  fine  schemes,  socialistic  and  all 
that,  you  know.  I'll  be  deucedly  obliged  if  you  can  tell 
me  when  his  honeymoon  in  foreign  parts  will  be  over?" 

Richard  frowned.  He  disliked  jocosity,  and  particu 
larly  when  applied  to  matters  even  indirectly  connected 
with  himself: 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  he  said,  as  if  he  had  misun 
derstood. 

"I  only  want  to  know  how  long  before  he  returns  to 
America.  My  wife  says  that  his  bride  has  been  cutting 
a  wido  row  in  English  'sassiety. '  :  (Grierson  was  the 
sort  of  man  to  call  society  "sassiety"  as  a  jest.) 

"I  really  don't  understand,"  said  Richard  coldly. 
"Whose  'bride'?" 

"Why,  your  uncle's,  of  course — Owen  Randolph's.  He 
is  your  uncle,  isn  't  he  ? ' ' 

Grierson 's  stodgy,  clean-shaven  face  looked  chap-fallen, 
and  his  "chaps"  wrere  of  such  dimensions  as  to  make  such 
a  change  very  noticeable. 

Richard  answered  rather  sharply,  for  he  was  beginning 

to  feel  a  vague  uneasiness.     "Yes,  he's  my  uncle — but. 

)  j 

Light  dawned  on  Grierson.  Ho  gave  a  sort  of  view- 
hulloa  and  smacked  his  great  thigh  in  its  plaid  knieker- 
bocker. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Bryce,"  he  shouted,  with  singular  offen- 
siveness,  it  seemed  to  Richard.  "I  believe  I'm  giving 
you  news!  /  don't  believe  you've  heard  of  his  mar 
riage  ! ' ' 

Richard  looked  at  him  with  still  anger,  his  brows  knitted. 

"Your  pleasantries  are  somehow  not  amusing  to  me," 
he  said.  "I  don't  laugh  easily." 

Grierson  calmed  himself. 

"But  really,  you  did  know  he  was  married,  didn't 
you?" 

Grierson  was  of  too  stout  a  fibre  to  be  snubbed  easily. 
He  stood  there  in  his  genial  vulgarity,  still  smiling  into 
Richard's  gloomy  face. 

It  was  too  late  for  the  latter  to  pretend  a  knowledge 
which  he  did  not  have.  Besides,  he  felt  sure  that  this 
offensive  bounder  must  be  retailing  some  newspaper  go»- 
sip,  as  unfounded  as  it  was  unpleasant. 

"I  have  been  in  the  East  since  May,"   he  now  said 


250  WORLD'S-END 

sternly,  "but  if  you  are  speaking  seriously  I  feel  sure 
that  you  have  been  misinformed.  ' 

''No,  my  son,"  said  Grierson  jovially.  ("Richard  flushed 
with  anger.)  "I'm  not  misinformed,  by  Jingo! — Married 
sure  and  fast  is  the  hardened  Benedick. — Married  on  the 
8th  of  July  by  a  man  I  inow — the  Reverend  Henry  Nel 
son.  I  got  it  from  him,  so  it's  a  sure  deal." 

Richard  stared  silently  out  to  sea.  He  could  scarcely 
credit  what  he  had  heard,  yet  Grierson  'r.  last  words  had 
the  true  note  of  conviction.  Richard's  whole  mind  was 
bent  on  keeping  his  face  impassive. 

"My  letters  must  have  miscarried,"  he  said  finally  in 
a  cold  voice. 

"So  you  don't  even  know  who  the  bride  was,  hey? — 
"Well !  I  'in  in  luck  to  be  handing  out  fresh  news  on  a  liner. 
A  perfect  little  beauty,  they  say,  and  the  Reverend  Nel 
son's  second  cousin.  You  must  know  her,  of  course, 
Bryee?  They  live  near  your  place  up  in  Buckfastleigh 
County.  No,  they're  in  Queen  Charlotte,  I  believe — 
Phoebe  Nelson  „  .  .  old  'Family-Tree'  Nelson's  little  girl. 
'Crabbed  age  and  youth'  .  .  .  'January  in  the  lap  of 
May' — ha-ha!  But  of  course  that's  only  my  joke.  Owen 
Randolph 's  a  fine  man  for  many  a  year  yet. ' ' 

Richard  pulled  off  his  glove  as  deliberately  as  he  had 
drawn  it  on.  He  rolled  it  carefully  up  with  the  other 
and  fastened  the  outer  wrist-button. 

"Whom  did  you  say  my  uncle  has  married?"  he  asked 
in  a  detached  voice. 

"Phoebe  Nelson  .  .  .  old  Tom  Nelson's  daughter.  You 
know  her,  don't  you?" 

"Slightly,"  said  Richard. 

"Is  she  such  a  beauty  as  they're  making  out  in  Eng 
land?" 

"Very  charming.  Excuse  me.  I've  an  engagement." 
He  turned  and  went  forward,  leaving  Grierson  plant  e. 
Even  that  easy-going  person's  gorge  rose  at  this  cavalier 
treatment. 

"Puppy!"  thought  he;  "needs  to  get  his  face  smacked." 

Then  suddenly  light  broke. 

"Oh-ho!"  he  thought,  grinning.  "I  see  which  way  the 
cat  jumps.  Uncle's  millions  slipping  elsewhere!" — And 
he  stumped  joyously  to  the  smoking-room  to  recount  over 
a  high-ball  how  "hacked"  that  stuck-up  chap  Bryce  had 
looked  at  the  news  of  his  uncle's  marriage.  Hadn't  heard 


WORLD'S-END  251 

it,  by  Jingo!  Got  positively  green  .  .  .  pea  green  over 
it! 

In  the  meantime  Richard  had  walked  nervously  for 
ward  until  he  was  in  the  bow  of  the  Cyclopic.  He  leaned 
there  in  the  steady  breeze,  his  cap  under  his  arm  for 
safety,  watching  the  sluicy  crash  of  the  ice-green  water 
under  the  ship's  foot,  "Phoebe  .  .  .he's  married  Phoebe. 
.  .  .  No.  Impossible.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  it's  true?  .  .  . 
What,  then?  .  .  .  Phoebe  .  .  .  married  to  Uncle  Owen. 
.  .  .  Impossible  .  .  .  but  if  it's  true?  .  .  .  Then  .  .  ." 

He  stared  down  at  the  sleek  curve  of  the  ton-weights 
of  massive  water,  in  which  the  foam  was  submerged  like 
clots  of  powdered  glass.  And  there,  through  the  salt 
tang  of  the  sea  wind,  a  breath  of  flower-scented  air  seemed 
to  reach  him.  .  .  .  He  saw  the  moonlight  on  wet  lawns. 
...  A  soft,  parted  mouth  quivered  beneath  his.  .  .  . 

He  put  his  bent  forefinger  against  his  lip  and  bit  it 
nervously.  Here  was  another  infernal  tangle.  .  .  .  He 
wished  to  God  now  that  he  had  not  told  his  mother.  He 
might  have  managed  if  only  he  and  Phoebe  were  in  the 
secret  .  .  .  but  now,  with  his  mother  always  watching 
him.  And  they  would  have  to  meet.  H"  could  not  with 
draw  from  all  intercourse  with  his  uncle — cease  going  to 
World  's-Eiid  entirely  .  .  .  that  would  rouse  conjecture 
at  once,  if  not  suspicion. 

"God!  what  a  damnable  position,"  he  said  aloud — but 
he  could  scarcely  hear  his  own  words  for  the  wind  at  the 
bow. 

Then,  without  warning,  the  grimmest  aspect  of  his 
dilemma  rushed  upon  him.  The  money  .  .  .  his  uncle's 
fortune  ...  it  would  go  now  to  the  latter 's  wife  and  chil 
dren,  of  course.  His  chil —  .  .  .  Eichard  's  mind  checked, 
staggered,  in  the  midst  of  this  thought.  That  coming 
child  .  .  .  the  child  that  was  really  his  .  .  .  Richard's 
.  .  .  would  be  looked  on  by  his  uncle  as  his  child.  .  .  . 

Richard  stared  and  stared  at  the  thundering  volume 
that  poured  smooth  and  blackly  green  from  under  the 
ship's- foot,  sending  up  great,  tumbled  masses  of  silverish 
spume. 

"It's  impossible  .  .  .  incredible,"  he  thought  again. 
"That  ass  has  gorged  a  lot  of  newspaper  lies.  ...  I'll 
not  believe  it."  And  again  the  little  after- voice  in  his 
mind  whispered,  "But  if  it's  true! — What  then?" 

The  Cyclopic  reached  New  York  towards  the  end  of 


252  WORLD'S-END 

December,  and  Richard  went  straight  from  the  dock  to 
his  mother 's  flat,  where  Mary  had  written  they  were  going 
in  October. 

Mary  met  him  in  the  hall.  He  changed  colour  when 
he  saw  her,  and  this  moved  Mary  of  the  Tender  Heart, 
because  she  had  not  believed  him  capable  of  the  emotion 
that  she  saw  unmistakably  written  now  in  his  face. 

She  kept  his  hand  very  kindly  in  hers  a  moment. 

"Don't  look  so  anxious.  I  really  think  she's  better 
lately  .  .  .  ever  since  we  got  your  wire." 

"Thank  God,"  said  Richard,  having  recourse  to  one  of 
the  banal  expressions  of  common  humanity  in  his  intense 
relief.  His  face  worked,  and  Mary  turned  away,  feeling 
quaintly  that  to  have  surprised  Richard  in  the  grasp  of 
so  uncomplicated  an  emotion  as  filial  love  was  like  having 
glimpsed  his  soul  in  its  under-garments.  She  opened  the 
sitting-room  door  to  let  him  go  in  alone,  and  closed  it 
softly  behind  him. 

Sally  was  lying  on  a  couch  after  her  noonday  drive. 
Her  eyes  seemed  immense  in  their  deep,  brownish  circles. 
Richard  stood  looking  at  her,  his  face  still  quivering,  and 
she  gazed  back  at  him,  a  dull  red  gathering  on  her  cheek 
bones.  Then  suddenly  her  set  expression  broke,  she  held 
out  her  thin  arms.  With  an  awkward  step  or  two,  Rich 
ard  reached  them,  his  head  was  on  his  mother's  breast. 
He  was  crying  like  a  little  lad,  and  Sally  held  him  tight, 
saying,  "My  boy.  .  .  ._  My  boy.  ..." 

Richard  drew  back  his  head  presently  and  looked  at  her 
unashamed,  his  face  all  smeared  with  tears.  "What  I 
have  endured  since  Mary  wrote  me  .  .  ."  he  whispered. 
He  felt  for  his  handkerchief  vainly,  and  Sally  took  out 
hers  and  wiped  his  eyes  and  cheeks,  then  let  him  take  the 
crumpled  ball  from  her. 

"And  to  feel  that  it  was  my  doing.  .  .  .  Mother!  that 
was  hell.  ..." 

The  sick  pelican  hastened  to  denude  herself  still  more. 

"No  .  .  .  no.  ...  It  wasn't  your  doing,  my  darling — 
that  is,  only  partly.  Oh,  Richard !  Richard !  What  dread 
ful  madness  possessed  you  .  .  .  you,  of  all  people?" 

"I  don't  know,  Mother.  .  .  .  Nature  plays  curious 
tricks  on  one.  ..." 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  holding  her  thin  hand 
in  his,  kissing  it  from  time  to  time  and  staring  gloomily 
at  the  carpet. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  253 

"But,  my  son,  if  you  felt  temptation  coming.  ..." 

"It  wasn't  like  that,  mother.  I  can't  explain.  ...  It 
came  like  a  cloudburst.  ...  I  had  no  more  idea  of  such 
a  thing  than  of  suicide.  ..." 

Sally  gave  a  heartrending  sigh. 

"It  was  almost  suicide,  my  poor  boy." 

"Yes  ...  I  know,"  he  said. 

"Richard,  ..."  said  Sally  (there  was  a  cruel,  unwom 
anly  hope  in  her  voice.  She  was  all  mother  now).  "Did 
she  .  .  .  did  she  .  .  .  lead  you  on?" 

"No,  mother,"  said  Eichard. 

Sally  sighed  again. 

"But  she's  a  light  girl,  for  all  that,"  she  said. 

Eichard  grew  pale. 

"No.  mother,"  he  said  again,  in  a  low  voice  but  very 
distinctly. 

"Not!  .  .  .  But  how,  then,  could  she  give  herself  to 
another  man  in  less  than  two  months  .  .  .  after?" 

Eichard  glanced  up  quickly.  The  blood  settled  on  his 
cheek  bones  just  as  his  mother's  had  done  when  he  en 
tered. 

"Then  it's  true?"  he  said. 

"What  is  true?"  asked  Sally,  puzzled. 

"That  .  .  .  she's  married — to  my  uncle?" 

Sally  started  up  on  her  elbow. 

"Eichard!— Didn't  you  get  my  letter?" 

"No,  mother.  I  thought  one  of  your  letters  must  have 
miscarried." 

"Didn't— Mary  mention  it?" 

"No.  A  vulgar  brute  called  Grierson  told  me  aboard 
ship." 

' '  What !  You  learned  this  awful  thing  from  a  stranger  ? 
.  .  .  Oh,  my  poor,  poor  boy ! ' ' 

She  sank  back  and  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

Eichard  knelt  down  beside  the  sofa  and  looked  at  her 
imploringly. 

"Mother,  dear,  if  you  get  agitated,  Mary  won't  let  me 
stay  with  you.  Please,  please  don't  worry  about  me.  You 
make  me  feel  the  most  worthless  wretch  in  the  world  with 
your  unselfishness."  (This  must  have  been  an  emotion 
sufficiently  novel  to  have  its  bitter-sweet  for  Eichard.) 
"It  is  you  alone  that  I  am  thinking  of  in  all  this — and 
you  must  think  of  yourself  and  not  of  me." 

Sally  smiled  a  smile  as  subtle  and  faint  as  Mona  Lisa's. 


254  WORLD'S-END 

"When  I  cease  to  think  of  you  I  shall  no  longer  be 
myself,"  she  said. 

Kichard  sat  silent,  kissing  from  time  to  time  her  thin 
hand  where  the  rings  looked  cruelly  heavy  now. 

Suddenly  Sally  spoke. 

"Richard  ...  I  must  tell  you  that  I  was  doing  all  in 
my  power  for  the  girl." 

Richard  kissed  her  hand. 

"Everything — everything  that  was  possible  I  did  for 
her.  When  she  fell  ill  I  went  and  nursed  her  myself." 

"She  was  ill?" 

"Yes.  Very  ill,  or  seemed  to  be.  I've  thought  since 
that  it  was  part  of  a  scheme  to  work  on  your  uncle's  sym 
pathies.  .  .  .  That  girl  is  much  cleverer  than  she  seems, 
Richard." 

Richard  swallowed.  This  was  the  stale  after-taste  of 
pleasure  that  kept  rising  in  his  throat  under  his  mother's 
persistent  words. 

"It  .  .  .  it  isn't  in  her  nature  to  scheme  .  .  .  believe 
me,  mother." 

Sally  put  up  her  nervous,  sallow  hand  and  turned  his 
face  to  the  light. 

"Had  you  more  love  for  her  than  you  will  admit,  Rich 
ard?"  she  asked. 

"No,  mother.  ...  I  ...  I  was  fond  of  her.  But 
.  .  .  that  is  not  the  question.  Mere  justice  is  the  question. 
It  isn't  in  her  to  scheme  or  plot." 

"I  wonder  at  your  action  in  leaving  the  country  if 
such  has  always  been  your  opinion  of  her,"  said  his 
mother,  with  the  first  taint  of  bitterness  in  her  voice. 

' '  It  was  my  horror  of  marriage  in  the  abstract.  ..." 

' '  But  you  would  have  married  her  if  .  .  .  ? " 

"Mother,  whatever  you  had  insisted  on  my  doing  I 
should  have  done.  But  it  would  have  shattered  my  whole 
life." 

' '  And  what  is  it  now,  with  all  your  possessions  stripped 
from  you?"  she  asked  sombrely. 

"At  least,"  said  Richard  with  some  dignity,  "I  possess 
my  own  soul.  In  a  marriage  like  that  I  should  have  pos 
sessed  neither  my  soul  nor  my  body." 

"I  don't  believe  you  have  yet  realised  what  this  mar 
riage  means  to  you — to  your  whole  future." 

"Yes  ...  I  realise  it." 

"Yet  you  defend  the  girl?     Her  ingratitude  to  me  .  .  . 


WORLD'S-END  255 

the  wanton  lightness  with  which  she  went  from  one  man's 
arms  to  another's  at  the  first  beckoning?" 

That  dusky  red  flew  into  Richard's  face  again.  Some 
where  down,  down  in  the  primal  depths  of  his  virility 
stirred  an  instinct  that  leads  the  male  to  defend  female 
things  worried  by  other  females. 

"I  don't  believe  the  woman  lives  who  could  have  re 
sisted  such  a  temptation,"  he  said. 

Sally  was  angry  with  him  for  resisting  her,  yet  some 
thing  in  her  felt  glad  that  he  resisted. 

"You  must  excuse  my  one-sidedness, "  she  said  coldly. 
"I  confess  that  my  view  of  the  whole  affair  is  a  very 
partial  one.  I  think  of  you  first  .  .  .  the  girl  last  of  all. 
Though,  as  I  said,  I  did  all  for  her  that  was  in  my 
power." 

"I  knew  you  would,"  murmured  Richard.  He  was  suf 
fering  extremely  at  present,  had  his  mother  only  guessed 
it.  By  her  very  severity  she  had  compelled  him  to  defend 
the  defenceless,  and,  in  so  doing,  the  ruthlessness  of  his 
own  course  towards  Phoebe  became  partially  evident  to 
him.  He  wondered  whether  his  mother  would  often  bring 
up  this  odious  and  painful  subject.  As  she  got  stronger 
he  must  let  her  know  that  it  was  beyond  endurance  dis 
tasteful  to  him.  Just  at  present,  however,  he  had  no 
course  but  to  submit.  He  added  now: 

"You  have  the  right  to  make  me  any  reproaches  in 
your  power.  I  deserve  them  all,  and  more  than  all.  But 
I  would  be  a  hound  if  I  let  you  think  too  badly  of  ... 
of  .  .  ." 

He  could  not  pronounce  Phoebe's  name.  Again  he 
kissed  his  mother's  hand  and  sat  silent. 

Sally  took  up  another  side  of  the  question.  "Have  you 
thought  how  terribly  embarrassing  it  will  be  when  they 
come  back?"  she  asked. 

"Yes  .  .  ." 

"It  will  be  impossible  for  you  to  avoid  them  altogether. 
Owen  would  begin  to  wonder.  .  .  .  You  will  have  to  come 
to  World 's-End  sometimes.  Richard!  What  a  horrible 
.  .  .  what  an  unthinkable  situation!" 

"I  know,"  he  said  thickly, 

"But  you  will  have  to  do  it  sometimes.  If  Owen  should 
ever  dream.  .  .  .  But  of  course  that's  impossible.  Only 
you  will  have  to  be  frightfully  careful.  ...  I  wish  now 
that  you  had  not  told  me. " 


256  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

' '  Yes — I  have  wished  that  too, ' '  said  Richard  under  his 
breath,  "ever  since  I  heard  of  the  marriage." 

"They  will  be  coming  back  in  the  spring,  I  suppose," 
Sally  continued.  "Good  God!  .  .  ."she  broke  off.— "The 
.  .  .  the  .  .  .  child.  ...  I  shall  have  to  sit  there  know 
ing  it  is  your  child.  .  .  .  There,  with  her  and  you  and 
Owen  .  .  .  with  her  knowing  that  I  know.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's 
too  much !  It 's  too  much !  I  can 't  stand  it.  ...  I  can 't. 

5  7 

She  struggled  up,  holding  by  his  arm  and  gasping  for 
breath.  Richard  was  wild  with  alarm.  He  called  des 
perately  for  Mary.  She  came  running  with  a  glass  in 
'her  hand.  She  had  foreseen  some  such  contingency  as 
this.  Supporting  Sally's  head  very  tenderly,  she  held  to 
her  nostrils  a  handkerchief  with  a  little  globule  of  nitrate 
of  amyl  crushed  in  its  folds,  then,  when  the  stricture  in 
her  chest  was  relieved,  gave  her  the  medicine  in  the  glass. 

And  as  she  eased  her  back  upon  the  pillow,  while  Rich 
ard  stood  looking  on,  helpless  and  ghastly  pale,  she 
thought:  "No,  I  can  never  leave  her  now.  How  strange! 
Some  of  us  seem  destined  to  be  'prisoners  of  hope'  all  our 
lives.  I  thought  I  was  free  at  last  when  Aunt  Lucy  went 
— and  now  here  is  poor  Sally.  There's  no  woman  but  me 
whom  she  really  loves  or  who  loves  her  .  .  .  and  I  can't 
leave  her  to  a  trained  nurse.  Well,  if  only  for  Owen's 
sake  I  must  do  it  ...  but  then  I'm  fond  of  her,  too, — 
poor,  poor  Sally!" 

She  sat  down  by  the  couch,  fanning  Sally  with  a  little 
Spanish  fan  from  a  table  near  by,  though  it  was  snowing 
outside,  and  whispered  to  Richard  that  he  had  better  go. 

He  went  submissively,  looking  back  from  the  door  at  his 
mother's  ghastly  face  on  the  violet  cushion  with  a  sick 
spasm  of  his  own  heart.  He  was  exhausted  as  though 
from  cruel  physical  exercise,  and  his  brain  felt  like  gritty 
fluff  within  his  hot  skull.  Truly  a  great  matter  had  been 
kindled  by  his  little  fire.  One  careless  spark  of  passion, 
like  a  burning  shred  from  some  holiday  bonfire — and  all 
his  ordered  world  was  a  conflagration. 


WORLD'S-END  257 


T3  UT  Phoebe  and  Owen  did  not  return  to  America  that 
•*-*  spring,  as  Sally  had  thought.  Little  "Susan  Diana," 
as  the  baby  was  quaintly  named,  had  an  illness  in  April 
which  hung  on  for  some  time,  and  which  Dr.  Fulke  said 
would  make  a  sea  voyage  that  summer  extremely  risky 
for  her. 

The  baby's  name  was  the  result  of  much  cogitation  on 
the  part  of  Phoebe  and  Owen.  Phoebe  did  not  wish  her 
name  given  to  it,  neither  did  Owen.  If  they  had  named 
it  Mary,  Sally  would  have  been  jealous.  They  both  felt, 
though  neither  could  tell  the  other  of  these  feelings,  that 
to  call  it  after  Sally  would  not  do.  And  Owen  winced 
at  the  thought  of  the  child's  bearing  his  own  mother's 
name,  and  the  name  of  Phoebe's  mother  was  not  suggested 
either.  So  they  had  decided  to  call  the  little  one  after 
its  two  godmothers, — and,  by  Taiite  Suzanne's  request, 
"Diana"  was  the  name  chosen  for  use.  She  could  not 
bear,  she  had  said,  to  think  of  another  "pauvre  fillet  te 
ecrasce  par  un  nom  aussi  liideux  quo  le  sien." 

In  June  they  had  gone  to  stay  at  "Bois  Dormant,"  the 
Mauvigny  chateau  in  Normandy,  for  the  summer,  and 
in  July  Owen  went  to  America  for  three  weeks,  to  see 
Sally,  who  was  still  far  from  well,  and  to  give  a  glance 
at  his  affairs.  By  the  autumn  little  Diana  was  as  lively 
and  rosy  an  atom  as  could  be  desired,  and  in  the  last 
week  of  September  they  sailed  from  Havre  for  New  York. 

It  was  on  a  day  all  glittering  blue  and  gold  that  Phoebe 
came  back  to  "  World  's-End,"  whence,  in  the  little 
"jumper,"  behind  Kildee,  she  had  driven  away  in  such 
a  daze  of  misery.  As  they  passed  over  the  stone  bridge 
at  the  foot  of  the  lawn  she  looked  down  at  the  Green- 
Flower,  now  all  embroidered  with  patterns  of  red  and 
yellow  autumn  leaves,  and  thought  of  that  day.  How 

madly  wretched  she  had  been  then, — and  now But 

now,  in  spite  of  all  the  love  and  care  that  surrounded 
her, — because  of  it.  indeed,  was  she  not  at  times  even  more 
wretched, — with  a  deeper,  more  hopeless  misery?  For 
the  first  ecstasy  of  motherhood  had  passed,  leaving  her 
no  less  devoted  to  her  baby,  but  at  the  same  time  making 
place  for  that  anguish  of  remorse  which  wrung  her  when 
she  saw  Owen  so  tender  to  the  child  that  he  thought  his 


258  WORLD'S-END 

own, — about  which  she  had  deceived  him  with  a  cowardly 
silence  worse  than  actual  lying. 

He  had  trusted  her,  honoured  her,  saved  her,  and  she 
had  done  this  dreadful  thing  to  him. 

Then  suddenly  the  hunger  for  happiness  rose  in  her, 
wild  and  fierce  as  the  physical  hunger  of  the  starving,  and 
all  her  young  irresponsibility  revolted  from  stern  codes 
and  the  inner  voice  which  so  ruthlessly  condemned  her. 
But  now  reaction  had  seized  her  for  the  moment,  and  she 
found  sweetness  in  the  contrast  of  that  day  with  this.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  life, — her  life,  at  least, — was  far 
stranger  than  anything  that  people  wrote  in  books,  for 
she  could  see  the  wraith  of  herself  sitting  huddled  and 
stupefied  in  the  jumper  in  her  shrunk  white  linen  frock — 
all  alone  .  .  .  more  lonely  than  any  one  in  the  world, 
she  thought — and  now,  over  that  same  bridge  she  was 
passing  in  a  smart  carriage,  her  husband  beside  her,  Giles, 
the  baby's  nurse,  tall,  thin,  and  very  English,  on  the  seat 
in  front,  and  on  her  knees  little  Diana  herself,  "burbling" 
like  a  joyous  "  Jabber  wo  ck. "  Giles  had  given  her  a  china 
dog  to  play  with,  for  her  teeth  were  coming  fast  and  she 
loved  the  feeling  of  the  cool  porcelain  on  her  hot  little 
gums;  and  alternately  she  sucked  the  round,  inane  head 
with  its  blue  eyes  and  brown  ears,  or  beat  with  the  ani 
mal  's  whole  person  on  Owen 's  knee. 

"Da-da-da-da-da-da,"  said  Diana  gaily,  with  every  in 
flection  of  assertion  and  enquiry  possible  to  imagine. 

Phoebe  looked  at  her  thoughtfully. 

"I  do  really  believe  she's  trying  to  say,  'Ta-ta,'  Owen, 
What  do  you  think,  Giles?". 

"P'r'aps,  m'm.    She's  very  quick  to  learn." 

"Da-da-da-da,"  said  Diana,  and  suddenly  smote  her 
in  the  face  with  the  china  dog,  chuckling  rapturously. 

"Oh,  Giles!"  cried  Phoebe,  "I'm.  afraid  she's  cut  your 
lip." 

Giles  answered  impassively  from  behind  her  handker 
chief.  "No,  m'm.  Only  a  slight  bruise,  m'm.  'Twas  my 
fault.  She's  done  it  before.  I  should  have  been  on  the 
watch." 

Here  Diana  bumped  her  head  against  her  nurse's  flat 
but  motherly  breast,  and,  taking  the  dog's  head  entirely 
into  her  own  rosy  mouth,  mumbled  it  contentedly. 

"Isn't  it  odd,"  said  Phoebe  to  Owen,  "how  such  a  wee 
mouth  outside  can  be  so  big  inside?" 


WORLD'S-END  259 

"As  far  as  I  can  gather,"  said  Owen,  "babies  are  far 
more  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made  than  wre  are." 

He  was  rejoiced  to  see  Phoebe  so  calm,  with  what  he 
knew  must  be  such  an  ordeal  looming  directly  ahead,  for 
Sally  had  stayed  on  at  World's-End  with  Mary  to  await 
their  coining.  Eichard,  Mary  had  written,  wras  off  to 
North  Carolina  for  the  autumn  shooting. 

But  Phoebe  was  far  from  calm  Avithin.  Her  talk  about 
the  baby  had  only  been  to  give  Owen  the  impression  that 
he  had  received.  It  seemed  to  her  that  this  coming  meet 
ing  with  Sally  was  one  of  the  hardest  things  that  fate 
had  yet  brought  upon  her.  But  it  was  unavoidable.  By 
night  and  day,  waking  and  sleeping,  for  long  months  it 
had  haunted  her.  She  had  tried  hard  to  school  herself 
against  the  grim  hour. 

She  sat  very  straight,  not  leaning  back,  and  her  hands 
dug  hard  against  each  other  under  cover  of  her  gloves. 
And  as  they  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  house,  and 
she  caught  glimpses  of  the  South  Portico  between  the 
dance  of  red  and  yellow  leaves,  her  face  grew  very  pale 
and  her  eyes  dilated. 

Owen  knew  that  look  and  his  heart  ached  for  her,  yet 
there  was  nothing  that  he  could  do.  In  his  ears  was  her 
piteous  cry  on  the  morning  of  her  baby's  birth.  "I  must 
tell  you.  ...  I  can't  die  till  I've  told  you."  That 
memory  was  very  precious  to  him.  Could  the  nurse  have 
left  them  together  for  a  few  moments  he  knew  that,  had 
he  let  her,  she  would  have  told  him  everything.  .  .  . 

Now  they  were  passing  the  clump  of  seven  great  acacias 
011  the  east  lawn.  A  crimson  hammock  was  slung  between 
two  of  them.  Someone  in  a  white  gown  was  lying  in 
it.  As  the  carriage  approached  she  sprang  up,  and  he 
saw  that  it  was  Mary.  She  came  running  towards  them. 
David  drew  up  the  bays,  and  her  face,  with  its  light- 
grey  eyes  all  a-dance  writh  excitement,  looked  up  at 
them. 

"Oh,  Cousin  Mary! — Dear  Cousin  Mary — get  in!  get 
in!"  cried  Phoebe. 

Mary  jumped  in  and  sat  down  between  Phoebe  and 
Owen,  taking  a  hand  of  either  in  her  own. 

"Oh,  my  dears!  How  glad  I  am  to  get  you  back!"  she 
said.  Tears  twinkled  on  her  short  lashes.  She  winked 
them  away  and  laughed.  Then  she  caught  sight  of  the 
baby. 


260  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

"Oh,  the  sweet!"  she  gasped.  "May  I  take  her  a 
minute  ? ' ' 

Phoebe  caught  up  little  Diana  and  put  her  in  Mary's 
arms.  Mary's  heart  leaped  as  she  pressed  the  tiny,  floss- 
covered  head  against  it  (Diana  always  snatched  off  in 
stantly  whatever  headgear  was  put  upon  her).  She  was 
holding  Owen's  child  in  her  arms.  That  was  a  terrible 
and  beautiful  moment.  She  could  not  tell  which  was 
greater,  her  pain  or  her  feeling  of  exquisite  tenderness. 
This,  all  unknown  to  her,  was  the  most  ironical  moment  of 
her  life,  but  she  did  not  dream  it,  and  her  heart  overflowed 
with  that  feeling  of  anguished  sweetness. 

Diana  was  a  singularly  sweet-tempered  child,  imperious 
and  courageous.  She  never  howled  at  the  ghastly  sight 
of  a  strange  face,  as  most  babies  do.  Now  she  wriggled 
round  in  Mary's  arms,  and,  freeing  her  little  hand  from 
the  too-close  embrace,  pounded  her  blithely  with  the  china 
dog. 

"Da-da-da-da,"  said  Diana  to  Mary. 

And  Mary,  smothering  her  with  kisses,  said  "Da-da-da" 
back  to  her  again. 

"Oh,  aren't  they  dear  together?"  cried  Phoebe.  "She's 
partly  yours,  Cousin  Mary.  Look,  Owen !  How  the  little 
thing  is  staring  right  up  in  Mary's  eyes!" 

And,  indeed,  the  child  had  thrown  her  head  back  on 
Mary's  breast,  and  was  gazing  into  the  light-grey  eyes 
out  of  her  deep,  violet  ones,  with  that  sudden  look  of 
mysterious  solemnity  that  makes  one  feel  sometimes  as 
though  a  pilgrim  of  the  ages  were  looking  from  a  baby's 
eyes. 

"It's  as  if  she  recognised  her  ...  as  if  she  were  seeing 
her  again  after  a  long,  long  time,"  said  Phoebe,  awed. 

"'la  child,  very  old,  over  waves,  toward  the  house  of 
maturity,  the  land  of  migrations,  look  afar, '  : '  quoted 
Owen.  "Who  knows?  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  does  recognise 
her!" 

"Baby — baby,"  thought  Mary  in  her  secretly  and  pas 
sionately,  yet  sweetly,  aching  heart.  "Perhaps  we  were 
nearer  .  .  .  far  nearer,  in  another  life.  Perhaps  there 
you  were  my  very  own  .  .  .  not  lent  to  me  kindly  as  you 
are  now." 

Suddenly  Diana  started  as  from  a  little  sleep,  and  began 
her  joyous  poundings  with  the  china  dog  again. 

Mary  spoke  to  them  over  her  fluffy  head. 


W  O  K  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  261 

"Sally  is  much,  much,  better,"  she  said.  "Of  course, 
she's  greatly  wrought  up  over  your  return.  She  doesn't 
say  much,  but  I  can  see  that  this  darling  mite" — she 
squeezed  the  baby  to  her — "is  in  her  thoughts  from  morn 
ing  till  night.  She's  been  turning  the  old  nursery  into  a 
regular  bower.  And  she  says  primly:  'Owen  shall  have 
no  cause  of  complaint  if  7  can  prevent  it,  or  that  Eng 
lish  nurse,  either.'  Isn't  that  Sallyesque?" 

' '  "What  does  Patton  think  of  her  condition  now  ? ' '  asked 
Owen.  They  were  nearly  at  the  house. 

"Much  better.  Excitement  is  bad  for  her,  of  course. 
Not  pleasant  excitement  like  this,  though.  And  she  can't 
rush  up  and  down  stairs  and  all  over  the  place  as  she 
used  to.  It's  very  hard  on  her,  poor  dear.  But,  with 
moderate  care,  there's  no  reason  to  think  that  she  won't 
live  'till  her  bones  rattle,'  as  she  says." 

The  carriage  was  stopping  before  the  South  Portico. 
They  saw  Sally's  tall  figure  in  a  gown  of  mauvish  heather- 
mixture,  standing  at  the  top  of  the  steps.  Owen  helped 
Mary  out,  then  turned  and  took  Phoebe's  hand.  He  kept 
it  in  his  as  they  mounted  the  steps  together. 

Sally's  eyes  were  fixed  on  little  Diana  in  Mary's  arms. 

"Richard's  child  .  .  .  Richard's  child  ..."  she  kept 
saying  to  herself.  Her  teeth  were  clenched  so  hard  that 
the  muscles  on  her  thin  jaws  stood  out. 

"Isn't  she  a  darling?"  cried  Mary  eagerly.  She  ran 
up  the  steps  and  put  the  baby  in  Sally's  arms.  There 
was  nothing  for  it.  The  thin  arms  were  obliged  to  close 
about  the  little  thing,  or  else  to  let  her  drop  upon  the 
stones  of  the  porch. 

Sally  stood,  with  a  dusky  red  on  either  cheek-bone,  hold 
ing  her  grandchild  in  her  arms. 

"Da-da-da-da,"  said  Diana,  pounding  her  thin  breast 
•with  the  china  dog. 

Giles  stepped  forward. 

"Shall  I  take  her,  m'm, "  she  suggested.  "She  gives 
nasty  blows  with  that  toy  sometimes." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sally.  Her  arms  loosened,  and 
Giles  took  the  baby. 

Now  Phoebe  stood  before  her,  her  hand  still  in  Owen's. 

There  was  an  instant's  pause,  then  Sally  bent  forward 
and  touched  her  cheek  with  set  lips.  Phoebe  was  white 
as  death.  She  could  not  speak,  but  she  gave  Sally  a 
touching,  quite  indescribable  look  as  she  drew  back  after 


262  WORLD'S-END 

placing  her  dry  kiss.  The  black  eyes  avoided  the  dark 
blue  ones.  Then  Owen  kissed  Sally,  and  both  he  and 
Phoebe  said  how  glad  they  were  to  hear  from  Mary  that 
she  was  better. 

"Oh,  they've  tinkered  me  up  between  them,"  she  said 
drily.  "But  you  know  how  much  good  a  patched  stirrup 
is.  It  always  breaks  at  the  most  important  fence." 

She  turned  towards  the  front  door. 

"Shall  we  go  up  to  the  nursery?"  she  asked  in  Phoebe's 
direction,  but  still  without  looking  at  her. 

"Please,"  said  Phoebe  in  a  low  voice. 

The  nursery  at  World 's-End  was  a  delightful  room, 
looking  over  the  south  lawn.  It  had  four  windows,  as 
Owen's  room  had,  two  opening  in  cupboards  in  the  wall, 
with  the  line  of  distant  mountains,  now  bloomily  blue, 
like  grapes,  showing  through  a  network  of  yellow  pear- 
leaves.  The  other  windows  were  all  one  shimmer  from 
the  pale  gold  of  the  tulip  trees  outside,  that  fluttered  in 
the  soft  October  breeze.  There  was  a  log-fire  in  the  big 
fireplace  with  its  brass  fire-dogs  and  fender  of  pierced 
brass.  The  white  walls  were  hung  with  old  prints, — the 
London  "Cries."  An  old  rose-and-white  chintz,  with  a 
pattern  representing  little  boys  in  short-waisted  trousers 
fishing  from  a  broken  bridge,  hung  at  the  windows  and 
covered  the  chairs  and  sofa.  There  was  a  small,  single- 
post  rosewood  bed  with  a  valance  of  this  chintz  for  Giles, 
and  a  wee  rosewood  crib  with  twisted  side-bars  for  the 
baby.  Some  toys  were  placed  near  the  fire, — an  old 
rocking-horse  that  had  been  Owen's  and  a  little  cart  that 
Sally  had  often  pulled  him  about  in.  She  went  now  and 
opened  a  door,  showing  a  bathroom  tiled  in  white  and 
rose  that  she  had  had  added,  making  use  of  a  large  closet 
formerly  used  for  wood. 

' '  This  is  the  addition  I  wrote  you  of, ' '  she  said  to  Owen. 
"I  thought  it  necessary." 

"It  was  dear  of  you  to  think  of  it,"  he  said  warmly. 
"It's  the  very  thing— eh,  Giles?" 

"Very  nice  indeed,  sir,  most  comfortable,  I  call  it,  sir," 
said  Giles,  with  unqualified  approval.  She  was  looking 
about  with  a  sly  surprise  that  tickled  Owen  greatly,  in 
spite  of  the  agitation  of  his  inmost  thoughts.  She  had 
so  evidently  braced  herself  to  endure  the  life  of  a  pioneer 
for  the  sake  of  Phoebe  and  the  baby,  to  both  of  whom  she 
was  already  sincerely  attached.  In  any  case,  however,  she 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  263 

was  ready  to  endure  hardship  at  the  command  of  "her 
Grace,"  whose  under-housekeeper  she  had  been  for  eight 
years.  Before  coming  to  Diana  she  had  nursed  the  only 
child  of  Victor  Iladringham 's  sister.  And  it  was  the  death 
of  this  child,  whom  she  adored,  that  had  caused  her  to 
give  up  nursing  for  a  time.  She  was  a  woman  of  some 
education  and  a  quiet,  determined  character. 

"Just  the  thing  for  that  little  Turk  of  a  namesake  of 
mine,"  Diana  had  said  to  Phoebe.  "If  Martha  Giles 
•can't  manage  her,  no  one  can,  for  you'll  never  be  able  to 
do  it,  you  soft-hearted  ducky!" 

Giles  was  a  childless  "widow  woman,"  and  expressed 
herself  as  thoroughly  satisfied  with  her  one  experience. 

A  soft  little  noise,  like  the  scratching  of  a  mouse  on  the 
wainscoting,  came  at  the  door.  It  was  Hannah,  come  to 
welcome  "the  young  mistress" — ("the  bride,"  as  they 
still  called  her  below-stairs)  and  to  see  "Mr.  Owen's 
baby," 

She  and  Giles  were  presented  to  each  other  in  due 
form.  Giles  told  Phoebe  afterwards  that  she  "had  no 
notion,  m'm,  asking  your  pardon,  m'm,  that  a  black  per 
son  could  be'ave  so  white-like."  She  and  Hannah  formed 
almost  immediately  a  quiet  friendship  that  lasted  as  long 
as  they  lived, — a  consummation  devoutly  to  be  grateful 
for,  as  English  servants  in  a  Virginia  country-place  are 
forlorn  exiles,  as  a  rule. 

They  left  Giles  to  the  ordering  of  her  new  kingdom,  and 
followed  Sally  downstairs  to  the  rose-room  for  tea. 

As  Phoebe  entered  this  room  she  grew  white  again. 
That  faint  yet  individual  perfume  characteristic  of  all 
very  old  Virginia  rooms,  where  beeswax  and  pot-pourri  are 
freely  used,  recalled  so  bitingly  to  her  the  day  when  she 
had  been  in  there  alone  with  Sally,  and  had  fainted  from 
sheer  horror  and  misery  on  that  very  sofa  towards  which 
Owen  was  now  leading  her. 

"Won't  you  take  off  your  furs?"  asked  Sally  with  cold 
civility,  and  Phoebe,  with  a  start,  began  loosening  her 
stole  and  jacket. 

Mary  ran  up  to  help  her. 

"What  lovely,  lovely  fur!"  she  exclaimed,  holding  it 
against  her  cheek.  "Almost  as  soft  as  little  Diana's  hair. 
Isn't  it  exquisite,  Sally?" 

She  held  it  towards  her. 

"Very  handsome,"   said   Sally,  glancing  up   from  the 


261  WORLD'S-END 

teapot  in  her  hand,  then  back  again.  Her  acrid  thought 
was: 

"Marriage  hasn't  improved  his  socialism.  Black  sables 
are  odd  wear  for  a  socialist's  wife." 

And,  somehow,  one  of  the  bitterest  tilings  in  all  this 
bitter  homecoming  was  that  "that  girl,"  as  Sally  still 
called  her  in  her  thought,  should  be  wearing  a  stole  and 
muff  and  hat  of  black  sable. 

Phoebe  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  sit  on  that  sofa 
to  which  Owen  had  led  her.  She  drew  up  a  little  chair, 
and  poised  herself  nervously  on  the  edge  with  her  cup 
of  tea. 

"With  her  jacket  and  furs  off,  her  figure  in  its  brown 
chiffon  blouse  and  sheath-like  skirt  of  dark-brown  cloth 
looked  both  taller  and  frailer  than  it  used  to. 

This  struck  Mary. 

"Why,  Phoebe,  darling,"  she  said.  "You've  got  too 
thin.  We  must  mend  that." 

"Oh,  I'm  very,  very  well,  Cousin  Mary,"  said  the  girl, 
flushing  slightly  as  she  felt  Sally's  black  eyes  sweep  over 
her.  "I  never  was  fat,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  do  know,  vain  puss! — But  there's  a  difference 
between  slimness  and  thinness.  Don't  you  find  her  thin, 
Sally?" 

Sally  rinsed  a  cup  with  delicate  care. 

"I  find  her  looking  very  well,"  she  said. 

"Well,  that  or  something  certainly  gives  you  quite  'an 
air,'  "  smiled  Mary.  "You're  not  my  little  village  dar 
ling  any  more." 

' '  Fancy ! ' '  said  Phoebe,  blushing  and  smiling  very  pret 
tily. 

Mary  gave  a  delighted  little  trill  of  laughter. 

"Oh,  you  imitative  monkey!"  she  said.  "I  never  heard 
anything  so  British  in  my  life!  Do  you  notice  that  Eng 
lish  accent,  Sally? — which  the  English  laugh  at  us  for 
calling  it,  by  the  way,  and  rightly,  too,  I  must  admit." 

"Phoebe  probably  admires  her  friend,  the  Duchess  of 
Wrexborough,  extremely,"  dropped  in  Sally's  dry  voice. 
"Imitation  is  the  sincerest  flattery,  you  know." 

"Poor  Phoebe!"  smiled  Owen.  "They're  ragging  you 
rather  stiffly,  aren't  they? — Perhaps  she's  caught  it  from 
me.  You  know,  Sally,  you  always  say  my  accent  can  be 
'cut  with  a  knife.'  ' 

"The  case  is  slightly  different,  you  must  admit,"  re- 


WORLD'S -END  265 

turned  Sally.    "Nearly  all  your  youth  was  spent  in  Eng 
land.     Phoebe  has  only  been  there  a  few  months." 

"But  I  don't  mean  to  do  it,"  put  in  Phoebe  earnestly. 
"I  think  it's  beautiful,  but  I  never  tried  to  do  it  my 
self." 

She  looked  rather  distressfully  at  Owen. 

"I  like  it,  however  it  came  about,"  said  he,  just  touch 
ing  the  big  sorrel  coils.  "So  why  worry?" 

"I  won't,  then,"  said  Phoebe,  feeling  suddenly  cour 
ageous  even  towards  Sally.  This  new  feeling  of  courage 
was  so  pleasant  that  to  exercise  it  she  held  out  her  cup 
to  the  tea-maker. 

"May  I  have  another?"  she  asked. 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Sally.  It  was  astonishing  the 
secret  bitterness  that  she  managed  to  instill  into  this  re 
mark,  so  tempered  that  but  for  circumstances  it  would 
only  have  conveyed  its  meaning  to  the  ears  for  which  it 
was  intended.  There  was  a  certain  expression  of  kindly 
frankness  about  Owen's  face,  an  openness  almost  boyish 
at  times,  which  led  people  to  think  him  an  unobservant 
man.  Even  Sally  had  never  penetrated  this  pleasant 
"persona"  of  his.  She  thought  that  she  could  chasten 
Phoebe's  present  state  of  undeserved  prosperity  unknown 
to  any  save  themselves.  But,  behind  the  smiling  lightness 
of  his  manner,  anger  was  stirring  in  him.  This  was  too 
bad  of  Sally,  this  veiled,  hostile  bitterness, — and  it  was 
stupid. 

"When  you've  finished  that  cup,  I  think  I'll  take  you  to 
your  room,  dear,"  he  now  said.  "It's  a  fagging  journey 
from  New  York  to  Crewe" 

Phoebe  sprang  up  gladly,  putting  down  her  half-full 
cup. 

' '  I  don 't  want  any  more.     I  'd  like  to  go  now. ' ' 

"The  room  over  this  ...  of  course?"  said  Owen  to 
Sally  from  the  door.  lie  saw  her  eyebrows  twitch  nerv 
ously. 

"Yes"  she  said. 

It  had  been  their  grandmother's  and  mother's  bedroom, 
and  opened  into  that  of  Owen's,  who  occupied  his  father's. 

Phoebe  gave  a  little  cry  of  pleasure  as  they  entered  it. 
A  lovely,  homelike  place  it  was,  with  its  cheery  mixture 
of  white  Empire  and  Chippendale  and  its  old  Aubusson 
carpet  with  a  green  ground  circled  by  cornucopias  of 
faded  grey  from  which  tumbled  all  the  flowers  of  Flora's 


266  WORLD'S-END 

garden.  A  fire  of  cedar-logs  burned  on  the  wide  hearth, 
filling  the  room  with  its  aromatic  fragrance. 

"Do  you  like  it,  'honey-pot'?"  he  asked,  amused  and 
pleased,  watching  her  as  she  darted  from  one  object  to 
another,  like  the  humming-bird  to  which  Mary  had  com 
pared  her. 

"  'Do  I  like  it?  ...  Do  I  like  it?'  "  she  echoed  him, 
glowing  and  paling.  She  came  and  caught  up  his  hand, 
meaning  to  press  her  lips  to  it,  but  he  held  hers  fast  and 
drew  her  to  him  instead. 

"Phoebe,"  he  said.  "Mind,  you're  to  come  straight  to 
me  the  first  minute  that  World 's-End  brings  you  anything 
but  happiness." 

"Yes,"  she  said  obediently,  but  her  heart  said: 

"I  must  be  very,  very  careful.  I  must  bear  every 
thing  without  a  look,  without  a  sign.  No  matter  what 
she  says  or  does  to  me,  I  must  smile.  I  must  seem  happy. 
I  must.  I  will." 

Owen  went  away  and  sent  America. 

"Oh,  America,"  said  Phoebe,  with  her  usual  formula 
on  such  occasions,  "hug  me!" 

America  swooped  down  and  squeezed  her  knees  until  she 
pinched  them. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful  to  be  at  home  again,  Eikky?" 

"Miss  Phoebe,  sugar,"  said  America  solemnly,  "when 
Pha-ry-Oh  saw  dat  linen-pin  a-comin'  outer  he  cha'yot,  an' 
no  hand  a-holdin'  it,  he  mought  a  thought  'twas  as  won 
derful  as  I  does  bein'  home  ag'in!" 

"But  you  enjoyed  yourself  abroad,  Rikky, — you  told 
me  so  often." 

"Yes,  Miss  Phoebe,  I  j'yed  myse'f,  but  j'yin'  ain't  hap- 
pifyin'." 


XXXV 

next  morning  Phoebe  drove  herself  over  to  Nelson's 
*•    Gift  in  the  pretty  phaeton  which  Owen  had  ordered 
for  her  before  they  came  home. 

America  sat  beside  her,  advanced  for  the  moment  over 
her  bete  noire,  Giles, — with  little  Diana  in  her  lap.  The 
dimple  in  her  round,  brown  cheek  looked  as  though  Aunt 
Polly  had  pricked  it  deep  with  a  kitchen  fork,  as  in  her 
incomparable  beaten-biscuits.  ' '  You  know,  Giles, ' '  Phoebe 


WORLD'S -END  267 

had  explained,  "all  America's  nearest  relatives  live  at 
my  home,  so  you  won't  mind  if  I  take  her  today,  instead 
of  you,  to  hold  the  baby." 

"Certainly  not,  m'm.  Your  wishes  are  mine,  m'm. 
Only  I  hope  the  minx  don't  fall  into  one  of  her  tantrums 
with  the  poor  dear  lamb.  'Tis  very  ill  for  infants  to  be 
treated  with  temper,  m'm." 

"Oh,— she  dare  not!"  exclaimed  Phoebe. 

"  'Dare  not'  is  something  unbeknownst  to  her,  asking 
your  pardon,  m'm.  She  would  sauce  one  of  the  blessed 
Apostles  if  such  a  thing  could  befall.  I've  no  patience 
with  her,  and  that's  the  truth,  m'm." 

"Indeed.  I  think  you  have  a  great  deal  of  patience  with 
her,  Giles,"  said  Phoebe.  "And  I  appreciate  it  very 
much.  I  scold  her  often  for  being  so  naughty  to  you." 

"  'Tis  neither  here  nor  there,  m'm.  I  pay  no  regard 
to  her  whatsomedever.  'Tis  all  as  if  a  black  cat  was  gave 
to  scratching,  and  a  body  kept  out  of  reach  and  let  it 
scratch  the  air.  The  little  baggage — excuse  my  plain  lan- 
gwidge,  m'm — may  scratch  the  air  and  welcome,  as  long  as 
she  don't  interfere  with  me.  Tongue  is  a  dish  as  is  easy 
pickled  with  scorn." 

"Well,"  said  Phoebe,  relieved,  "I'm  glad  you  look  at  it 
so  sensibly,  Giles.  You're  the  greatest  comfort  to  me.  I 
was  just  writing  to  the  duchess  about  you  this  morning." 

"I  thank  you,  m'm,  I'm  sure,  m'm.  I'll  be  beholden 
to  you  if  you'll  present  my  dutiful  respecks  to  her  grace, 
m'm." 

And  so  a  triumphant  America  was  rolled  towards  Nel 
son's  Gift,  behind  one  of  the  brown  cobs,  seated  beside 
her  mistress  with  the  jewel  of  the  world  upon  her  proud 
knees. 

As  they  sped  along  over  the  familiar  road  her  heart 
grew  ever  lighter  and  lighter,  just  as  Phoebe's  grew  heavier 
and  heavier,  for  was  she  not  about  to  recount  her  won 
drous  adventures  to  an  admiring  and  envious  clan  ?  Ever 
heavier  and  heavier  grew  Phoebe's,  until,  when  they  came 
to  the  ford  of  the  Green-Flower,  where  she  had  looked 
up  that  April  day  and  seen  Richard  sitting  on  Borak 
at  the  top  of  the  hill, — her  whole  breast  seemed  filled  with, 
lead.  And  when  they  passed  through  the  gate  of  Holly- 
brook  Wood,  and  the  little  temple  of  Venus  glinted 
through  the  trees, — so  great  a  sense  of  shame  and  misery 
overcame  her  that  it  was  all  she  could  do  to  keep  back  a 


268  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

moan  of  pain.  "With  fixed  eyes  and  set  lips  she  drove  on 
to  the  front  door. 

Mr.  Nelson  had  been  prevented  from  being  at  World 's- 
End  to  greet  her  and  his  little  granddaughter  on  their 
homecoming  because  of  one  of  his  usual  autumn  attacks  of 
influenza.  A  letter  to  that  effect  from  her  Aunt  Charlotte, 
who  now  lived  with  him,  had  been  awaiting  Phoebe  in 
New  York,  so  that  she  was  not  unduly  disappointed,  but 
it  had  seemed  long  until  the  next  day,  when  she  could 
show  him  her  new  treasure  and  kiss  his  dear  criss-cross 
wrinkled  face  again.  Now  all  her  joy  was  poisoned  by 
those  terrible  voices  of  inanimate  things  which  call  louder 
than  cannon  in  the  ears  of  guilt.  "Here  .  .  .  here  it 
was  ..."  cried  the  little  temple,  the  leaves,  the  flowers, 
the  very  blades  of  grass  as  she  passed  them  with  the  sweet, 
rosy  fruit  of  that  dark  hour  shining  beside  her.  There 
came  back  to  her  the  old  familiar  words  of  the  man  in 
the  Bible  who  beat  his  breast,  not  daring  to  look  up,  and 
cried,  "God  be  merciful  to  me,  a  sinner." — And  then 
rushed  over  her  the  thought  of  how  very  merciful  He  had 
been.  "I  have  been  a  wretched,  ungrateful  creature,"  she 
thought  now,  staring  at  the  home  which  was  forever  de 
secrated  for  her.  "He  has  saved  me  from  my  sin,  and  I 
have  not  thanked  Him  in  any  way  as  I  ought  to  have 
done.  I  will  begin  from  this  hour,  from  this  moment.  .  . 
if  He  will  only  show  me  how.  ..." 

"Confess  ye  your  faults  one  to  another  ..."  came  the 
instant  whisper  from  within. 

"No,  no,  no,"  urged  a  second  voice,  "that  would  be  the 
crowning  act  of  selfishness — to  ease  your  own  soul  at  the 
expense  of  his  happiness." 

Which  voice  was  the  voice  of  truth?  .  Which?  .  .  . 
Which?  .  .  .  White  and  shaken,  she  drew  up  the  gaily 
dancing  ' '  Jinko ' '  at  the  door  of  her  girlhood 's  home. 

They  were  all  there  to  greet  her,  having  spied  the 
phaeton  from  the  moment  that  it  left  Hollybrook  Wood ; — 
her  father, — wrapped  in  a  greatcoat  over  his  cashmere 
dressing-gown, — Aunt  Charlotte,  resplendent  in  peacock- 
blue, — Aunt  Patty,  Uncle  Burrell, — Lily,  pushed  back  to 
a  deferential  middle  distance  by  her  parents.  It  was  such 
a  welcome  as  softened  even  Phoebe's  dumb,  lonely  pain. 

Then  America  was  borne  off  kitchenwards  by  her  kith 
and  kin,  and  Phoebe  and  the  baby  were  left  in  the  old 
green-panelled  room  with  Mr.  Nelson  and  Aunt  Charlotte. 


WOULD'S-END  269 

Her  father  looked  very  well,  despite  his  influenza,  she 
thought,  as  she  sat  on  the  little  stool  at  his  side  in  her  old 
place,  balancing  Diana  upon  his  too  narrow  knee.  This 
feat  was  very  like  trying  to  balance  a  lively  guinea-pig  on 
a  tight-rope. 

Diana  gurgled  and  squirmed,  and  "swam"  desperately 
at  her  mother  with  both  mittened  hands. 

"Let  me  take  her,  while  you  talk  to  Thomas,"  said 
Aunt  Charlotte, — and,  bobbing  a  wonderful  chatelaine  at 
Diana,  she  so  won  that  midget's  fearless  heart  that  she 
immediately  began  her  swimming  motions  in  that  direc 
tion  with  both  feet  as  well  as  hands. 

Phoebe  resigned  her  gladly;  she  wanted  so  very  much, 
to  have  her  father  to  herself  just  for  a  few  minutes. 

' '  I  need  not  ask  you,  my  precious  child,  wiiether  you  are 
happy, ' '  he  said  with  deep  emotion,  so  soon  as  Aunt  Char 
lotte  and  the  baby  had  retired  to  a  distant  window.  "I 
need  only  to  look  at  yonder  sweet  infant  and  think  of 
your  noble  husband,  and  I  am  answered." 

Phoebe's  heart  swelled.  Only  twice  before  in  all  her 
life  had  her  father  called  her  "his  precious  child."  Once, 
when  as  a  little  thing  of  six  she  had  begged  him  piteously 
to  bring  her  dead  mother  back  to  life;  once,  when  he  had 
said  farewell  to  her  on  her  \vedding-day,  and  now  in  her 
young  motherhood.  But,  try  as  she  would,  she  could  not 
respond  freely  or  talk  to  him  as  she  wished  to — in  this 
place.  She  longed  to  be  gone  from  it  to  "World  's-End, 
where  all  was  new  and  untainted, — where  at  least  if  there 
was  fear  there  was  also  hope.  And  she  was  radiant  when 
he  said  yes,  that  ho  and  Charlotte  would  come  over  next 
day  and  spend  a  week  with  her.  She  fondled  his  hand 
and  told  him  of  what  a  charming  bedroom  and  study 
awaited  him  there,  and  of  what  a  splendid  library  Owen 
had. 

"Ah,  father  dear,"  .  .  .  she  pleaded,  "more  than  a  week 
.  .  .  stay  with  me  more  than  one  stingy  little  week."  And 
he  patted  her  eager  face,  saying: 

"We  shall  see.  .  .  .  "We  shall  see  .  .  .  but  an  old  man 
is  always  wedded  to  both  habits  and  habitation,  my  dear." 

Then  Phoebe  asked  after  her  dear  "Jimmy  Toots"  and 
"King  Reddy"  and  the  grey  kitten,  "Higgles,"  and  the 
chipmunk,  ""Weech,"  and  the  squirrel,  "  Fluff- wuzz. " 

Mr.  Nelson  smiled  affectionately  as  she  told  over  the 
odd  little  list  of  names. 


270  WORLD'S-END 

"Your  imagination,  my  dear,  does  not  trend  towards 
euphony,"  he  said;  "indeed,  I  never  heard  of  an  assembly 
of  domestic  pets  whether  in  or  out  of  the  domain  of  fact 
with  such  cacophanous  titles." 

"What  does  cacoph  .  .  .  what  you  said  .  .  .  mean, 
father  dear?"  asked  Phoebe  humbly.  Her  father  was 
dreadfully  learned,  she  thought.  It  was  odd  that  she  had 
not  imbibed  more  knowledge  merely  from  such  close  con 
tact  with  one  of  its  fountain-heads.  But  she  thanked  her 
stars  that  Owen  did  not  use  such  very  difficult  words. 

Mr.  Nelson  explained  the  meaning  of  "cacophanous" 
and  then  Phoebe  went  in  search  of  the  pets  whose  names 
it  characterised.  She  really  suffered  between  her  longing 
to  have  "Jimmy  Toots"  with  her  at  World 's-End  and 
her  shrinking  from  the  associations  which  he  evoked.  She 
decided  finally  to  leave  him  to  Aunt  Patty's  care — he 
seemed  to  have  grown  very  much  attached  to  her,  and  she 
to  him.  She  would  take  King  Eeddy  with  her,  and 
"Weech"  and  " Fluff -Wuzz. "  "Higgles"  would  be  too 
unhappy  on  a  strange  hearth-rug.  But,  then,  the  dogs  at 
World 's-End  might  devour  the  others.  She  ended  by 
taking  only  ' '  King  Reddy ' '  back  with  her. 

In  the  meantime  America  was  making  the  kitchen 
coruscate  like  some  jewelled  grotto  of  the  Arabian  Nights 
with  her  scintillating  anecdotes  of  foreign  splendours. 

"Yes,  Ma'am,"  said  she  in  response  to  a  wondering 
comment  from  Aunt  Patty,  "we  is  flew  high,  Miss  Phoebe, 
and  me,  I  kin  tell  you !  Why  dee  Queen  tuk  sech  a  shine 
to  Miss  Phoebe  dey  wa'nt  no  partin'  'em.  She  uster  take 
Miss  Phoebe  by  dee  elber,  same's  I'se  a-holdin'  you  now, 
an'  she  says,  says  she:  'Phoeb,  sweetie  .  .  .  '  (she  called 
her  Phoeb  for  short,  jes'  to  show  how  sot  she  was  on  her, 
— an'  'sweetie'  is  what  dey  says  over  dere  like  we-all  says 
'honey'  over  hyuh.)  'Phoeb,  s\veetie,'  says  dee  Queen, 
'le's  we-all  go  play  by  we  se'ves.'  An'  I  tell  you,  dee 
Queen  of  England  an'  my  Miss  Phoebe,  dey'd  jes'  hunch 
up  by  dey-se'ves  a-gigglin'  an'  a-swappin'  secrets  by  de 
day!" 

Aunt  Patty  and  the  whole  clanjamfry  of  shaded  kins 
folk  (some  twenty  in  all)  sat  awestricken  and  delighted. 
Then  Aunt  Patty  found  her  breath. 

"Well,  dee  ways  uv  Gawd  is  sho'  parst  guessin'  out," 
said  she,  "to  think  uv  Him  wid  all  his  knowledge  of  hu 
man  natur  pickin'  out  a  sassy  wench  like  you  to  go  buttin' 


WORLD'S-END  271 

up  wid  Queens  an'  sich.  Ef  you  was  spiled  bcfo',  I  reckon 
we'll  hev  to  put  bar'l  hoops  round  you  now  jes  to  hoi' 
you  together." 

America  bridled  and  helped  herself  to  more  ginger 
bread  from  the  huge  platter  served  in  honour  of  her  re 
turn  from  foreign  parts.  She  stuck  out  her  pointed, 
brown  little  linger,  as  perfect  as  a  monkey's,  and  the  cir 
cle  of  garnets  and  rhine-stones  which  adorned  it  twinkled 
in  the  kitchen  fire-light. 

"Did  dat  Queen  war  her  crown  all  dee  time,  or  a  hat 
sometimes?"  asked  Uncle  Burrell. 

"She  war  dat  crown  all  dee  time,"  said  America  loftily. 
"She  wan't  a-goin'  to  be  a  Queen  fuh  nothin'.  When  she 
want  to  go  out  she  jes'  had  her  maid  baste  a  piece  o'  silk 
in  dee  top,  an'  she  war  h'it  jes'  dee  same  es  a  hat." 

"Glory  be!     Dat  is  sho'  cu'yous, "  said  Uncle  Burrell. 

"But  dat  ain't  all,"  continued  America,  assisting  the 
gingerbread  in  its  sticky  course  downward  by  an  affected 
series  of  sips  from  her  mug  of  cider,  "talkin'  'bout  crowns, 
— one  day  when  Miss  Phoebe  had  to  go  to  a  party  in  a 
herry  (hurry)  an'  I  done  forget  her  teerarry  .  .  .  she 
sho'  did  scold  me  supp'n  scand'lous  fur  fergitten'  dat 
teerarry.  ..."  (America  was  a  most  artistic  liar.) 

"What  am  a  'teerarry'?"  asked  Aunt  Patty.  "Ef 
you'se  goin'  to  show  off  wid  outlandish  words  you'se  got 
tuh  'splain  'em." 

'Teerarry,'"  said  America,  who  was  enjoying  her 
self  as  never  before  in  her  whole  career,  "  'teerarry'  is 
dee  name  for  dee  sorter  second-hand  crowns  what  folkses 
kin  war  what  ain't  queens." 

"Uph!"  said  Aunt  Patty.  "I  wonder  at  my  Miss 
Phoebe  .  .  .  (caze  I  tells  you  right  now  you'se  gotter  quit 
calliii'  her  yo'  Miss  Phoebe  tuh  me,  you  sassy  piece)  .  .  . 
I  does  wonder  at  her  bein'  willin'  to  war  even  a  crown 
what's  second  han'." 

"Well,  clat's  only  my  way  o'  talkin',"  America  has 
tened  to  correct  this  false  impression,  "caze  dat  'teerarry' 
uv  Miss  Phoebe's  is  only  less'n  dee  Queen's  by  reason  it 
ain't  got  no  p'ints  to  it.  It  costed  ..."  she  thought 
rapidly,  "  ...  it  costed  fifty  thousand  dollars  in 
gole.  .  .  .  ' 

"Noiv  you  lyin'!"  said  Aunt  Patty  calmly. 

"No,  I  ain't,"  said  America,  in  no  wise  offended.  "I 
seed  de  'bill." 


272  WORLD'S-END 

"Dat's  anurrer,"  said  Aunt  Patty. 

"Hyuh,  'ooman,  let  dee  gal  git  on  wid  her  arrikdote, " 
put  in  Uncle  Burrell.  "What  happened  when  you  done 
f ergit  Miss  Phoebe 's  teerarry  wid  yo '  laziness  ? ' ' 

"Shucks!"  said  America  good-naturedly  superior,  "lazi 
ness  ain't  my  fault,  Unc'  Burrell.  High  speritedness  is 
my  fault!" 

"Well— tell  yo'  tale  and  hysh  'bout  yo'self,"  grunted 
the  old  man.  "Go  on  'bout  Miss  Phoebe  an'  dee  party." 

"Wellum,"  said  America,  drawing  in  her  breath  with  a 
little  whistle  through  the  gap  in  her  teeth,  "when  dee 
Queen  uv  Englan'  seed  as  how  Miss  Phoebe  ain't  got 
no  teerarry  to  war — she  jes'  ups  an'  says:  'Phoeb,  sweetie,' 
says  she,  'I  don't  care  'bout  his  hyuh  ole  party  nohow,' 
she  says.  'Dee  King  an'  dee  Ambuzzards  dey  jes'  wars 
my  life  out  a'makin'  me  dress  up  fuh  parties  in  my  ear- 
mines  and  jools  all  de  time.  I'se  jes'  nach'lly  sick  tuh 
my  stummick  uv  parties,'  she  says.  'Hyuh,'  she  says,  a- 
rippin'  dee  crown  uv  England  off'n  her  hade  (head),  'you 
war  my  crown,'  says  she.  'Gawd,  He  knows  I'm  glad  tuh 
get  shet  uv  it  fuh  one  evenin'  anyhow !'  Now  dat,"  wound 
up  America,  "is  dee  Gawspel  trufe!" 

Aunt  Charlotte,  who  of  course  accompanied  Mr.  Nelson 
on  his  visit  to  World 's-End,  was  another  thorn  in  Sally's 
already  festering  side.  She  was  probably  one  of  the  most 
unique  old  ladies  then  living,  and  had  Sally's  sense  of 
humour  been  keener,  and  her  mood  less  bitter,  might  have 
afforded  her  much  refreshment. 

Owen  told  Phoebe,  after  he  had  listened  twenty  minutes 
to  the  old  dame's  twittering  garrulity,  that  he  considered 
that  they  (Owen  and  Phoebe)  had  the  two  most  unparal 
leled  aunts  in  the  universe. 

Miss  Talliaferro  (she  was  the  aunt  of  Phoebe's  mother) 
— was  at  least  ninety-eight.  Her  figure  combined  the 
plumpness  of  the  wren  with  the  elegance  of  the  cat-bird. 
Her  still  abundant  hair,  of  a  soft,  floury  yellow-grey,  she 
wore  parted  and  dressed  in  early  Victorian  ringlets.  Her 
features,  which  clustered  close  together  in  a  long,  oval  face, 
were  of  the  precisely  pretty  type  characteristic  of  the 
steel  engravings  of  "fancy  portraits"  in  the  twenties. 

Her  manner  of  speech  was  as  unique  as  her  appearance. 
She  called  "James"  "Jeems,"  "yellow"  "yaller,"  and 
spoke  of  a  "dish  of  tay"  for  a  cup  of  tea.  Her  occupa- 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  273 

tion  during  moments  of  social  idleness  consisted  of  "knot 
ting"  or  "netting" — (she  used  either  term  impartially) 
and  it  was  charming  to  see  her  sitting  in  a  low  chair,  her 
pretty  old  legs — (they  had  been  called  like  Fanny  Elssler's 
she  always  told  you  in  due  time)  crossed  daintily, 
while  in  the  mesh  of  scarlet  silk  her  charming  old  feet, 
in  their  bronze  slippers,  looked  like  burnished  beetles 
caught  in  some  gaudy  spider-web. 

She  used  an  English  prayer-book  and  considered  the 
amendations  in  the  American  issue  both  stupid  and  sacri 
legious.  As  regarded  politics,  she  said  that  she  was  a 
"Loyalist,"  meaning  that  she  was  by  sentiment  still  a 
loyal  colonist  of  England,  and  she  called  the  father  of 
her  country  "that  interloper." 

When  unchecked  she  would  recount  the  past  triumphs 
of  her  personal  charms  by  the  hour,  and  would  wind  up  by 
reciting  a  long, — a  thirty-verse-long  poem  that  had  once 
been  inscribed  to  her  by  an  ardent  admirer  and  which, 
was  pasted  in  the  back  of  her  Bible.  It  began, 

"Charlotte! — to  praise  thee, — charms  like  thine, 
"Would  take  an  abler  pen  than  mine, 
Since  thy  fair  sex  requires  from  ours, 
A  tribute  of  immortal  powers. ' ' 

It  may  be  imagined  with  what  emotions  Sally  regarded 
Phoebe 's  great-aunt. 

"Ah,  do  let's  have  tea  in  the  nursery,"  pleaded  Mary 
the  next  afternoon,  when  the  old  gentleman  and  lady  ar 
rived  from  Nelson's  Gift.  "It  is  so  gay  and  cheerful 
there,  and  Giles  says  we  can't  have  the  baby  down  stairs 
today  as  she's  got  a  'smitch  of  cold.' — whatever  that  is." 

"Yes,  that  will  be  so  nice!"  cried  Phoebe, — then  caught 
herself  up  and  turned  to  Sally.  ' '  If  Cousin  Sally  wouldn  't 
mind?"  she  added  timidly.  Try  as  she  would  she  could 
not  keep  this  little  timid  note  out  of  her  voice  when  she 
addressed  Sally. 

Sally  lifted  one  eyebrow  slightly. 

"  vYhy  on  earth  should  I  mind?"  she  asked  in  quite  a 
pleasant  voice, — but  as  she  spoke  she  looked  full  at  Phoebe, 
which  she  seldom  did,  and  her  eyes  were  not  pleasant. 
The  girl  changed  colour. 

Jonathan,  who  had  already  brought  in  the  old  Sheffield 
tea-tray  and  set  it  on  a  table  near  Sally,  stood  waiting. 
Everyone  looked  at  her.  She  played  with  her  rings,  gaz- 


WORLD'S-END 

ing  absently  into  the  fire.  Owen  was  out  somewhere  on 
the  farm  with  Downer.  Suddenly  Sally  glanced  up  again. 
She  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  faint  expression 
of  surprise. 

"Well  ...  ?"  she  said,  "what  are  we  waiting  for? 
The  tea  will  get  spoilt." 

"Won't  you  ..."  began  Phoebe.  She  hesitated,  col 
ouring  painfully,  and  glanced  from  Sally  to  Jonathan. 

"Surely,"  said  Sally,  giving  her  voice  a  tone  of  pleas 
antry,  "you  are  not  playing  bride  still  and  waiting  for 
your  sister-in-law  to  give  orders  in  your  own  house?" 

The  others  felt  the  unhappy  jar  of  this  without  seeing 
exactly  why  they  felt  it.  They  stirred  uncomfortably,  and 
just  here  Owen  came  in. 

He  greeted  Mr.  Nelson  and  Miss  Talliaferro  warmly. 

' '  Tea  ? — Jolly ! "  he  exclaimed.  Something  in  the  atmos 
phere  struck  him.  "Why  aren't  you  having  tea?"  he 
asked.  "That  kettle  will  boil  over  in  another  second." 

"We  .  .  .  we  .  .  .  were  thinking  of  having  it  in  the 
nursery,"  said  Phoebe  in  the  low  voice  that  he  knew.  He 
glanced  sharply  at  Sally.  She  was  smiling  slightly.  He 
thought  he  understood. 

"Take  the  tray  up  to  the  nursery,  Jonathan,"  he  said. 
"Come  along  all.  I'm  very  keen  for  my  tea.  But  if  little 
Di  tries  to  climb  up  my  legs  an  usual  she'll  get  scratched, 
I'm  afraid.  I'm  bristling  with  Spanish-needles  and  what 
Mary  in  her  refinement  calls  '  leggar  's-bice. '  '  He  gave 
his  arm  to  Mr.  Nelson  to  help  him  up  the  stairs.  Aunt 
Charlotte  skipped  in  front  like  an  aged  lamb — not  a  sheep 
by  any  means. 

Last  evening  at  dinner  Phoebe  had  wanted  Sally  to  keep 
her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  Sally  had  loftily 
and  rather  cuttingly  declined  Avith  a  few  curt  words.  Owen 
had  felt  impelled  to  say:  "Sally  is  perfectly  right,  dear. 
Don't  fuss.  .  .  .  '  Phoebe's  lip  had  trembled,  but  she 
had  quietly  done  as  he  wished.  The  dark  blaze  kindled 
in  Sally 's  eyes  by  his  words  had  burned  fiercely  all  through 
the  meal.  "Stupid  .  .  .  tiresome  of  her  to  a  degree  .  .  . 
and  cruelly  unkind,"  Owen  had  thought,  with  all  a  man's 
helpless  irritation  over  the  petty  internecine  wars  of 
women.  But  Phoebe  must  be  led  to  show  more  "spunk." 
Hadn't  she  the  solid  phalanx  of  his  love  and  support 
behind  her?  Now  he  felt  that  again  there  had  arisen 
some  silly  household  issue.  The  question  of  who  was 


WORLD'S-END  275 

to  give  Jonathan  his  orders  probably.  Phoebe  must 
learn  to  take  her  place  as  mistress.  Sally  was  all  nettles. 
A  timid  touch  covered  one  with  blisters.  All  very  well,  but 
how  to  teach  Phoebe  to  grasp  those  nettles  fearlessly?  He 
turned  it  over  and  over  in  his  mind  all  the  way  up  stairs, 
while  outwardly  responding  to  Mr.  Nelson's  cadenced  re 
marks. 

The  nursery  certainly  looked  a  joyous  place  as  Jonathan 
held  back  the  door  for  them  to  enter.  The  huge  fire  of 
hickory  and  apple-prunings,  built  on  the  altar  of  Diana's 
"smitch  of  cold,"  danced  with  an  effect  of  gay  laughter 
over  the  happy  chintz  and  the  glasses  of  the  pictures. 
Each  window  was  a  curtain  of  rippled  gold  from  the  blow 
ing  leaves  outside.  The  tea-table  had  been  set  on  one  side 
of  the  blazing  fire,  and  Giles  was  restraining  the  baby  by 
the  tail  of  her  white  frock  from  laying  siege  to  the  silver 
that  glittered  so  alluringly  in  that  mysterious  upper  world 
represented  by  the  tops  of  tables  and  the  seats  of  chairs. 

"Ba-ba-ba-ba,"  clamoured  Diana,  whose  cold  in  the  head 
changed  her  favourite  word  despite  her,  and  then  she 
sneezed  s)  charmingly  and  looked  so  quaintly  astonished 
that  Mary  rushed  over  and  caught  her  up  in  her  arms, 
while  Giles  "blew"  her  bud  of  a  nose  for  her  with  learned 
skill. 

"Ba-ba-ba-ba,"  called  Diana,  and  "swam"  towards  her 
mother,  pressing  her  little  stomach  against  Mary 's  shoulder 
with  all  her  might.  "Ba-ba-ba-ba  ..."  she  went  on 
wailing  until  Phoebe  took  her  and  cuddled  her  close  against 
her  breast. 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Nelson,  leaning  back  in  a  big  half-way- 
house  chair,  like  the  one  at  Nelson's  Gift,  and  pleasantly 
soothed  by  the  hot  cup  of  camomile  tea  which  Phoebe 
had  made  for  him  from  the  baby's  stores.  "Now  that,  I 
grant  you,  is  a  congenial  subject  for  a  picture — the  young 
mother  and  her  babe.  How  much  happier  a  combination 
than  a  maiden  with  a  crow.  Mr.  Bryce  should  paint  you 
thus,  my  dear.  Do  you  not  agree  with  me,  Owen?" 

Phoebe's  face  was  hidden  against  the  baby's  hair. 

Sally,  apparently  looking  into  the  fire,  watched  her  as 
the  cat  watches,  the  mouse  on  which  another  cat  has 
pounced.  Owen  said: 

"I  don't  think  my  nephew  could  ever  paint  a  really 
good  portrait  of  Phoebe.  She  hasn't  the  type  that  he 
understands. ' ' 


276  WORLD'S-END 

Sally  slipped  in: 

"You  think  Boldini,  perhaps,  would  do  it  better?" 

Owen  looked  at  her. 

"No,"  he  said,  "Boldini  is  too  obviously  and  cleverly 
sensual.  I  wonder  why  you  suggested  him?" 

"It  occurred  to  me  that  he  could  make  a  very  striking 
picture  of  her." 

"And  so  he  could  of  you,  or  of  me,"  said  her  brother. 
"I  think  you  would  be  amazed  to  find  what  a  vivid  thing 
he  would  make  of  you,  Sally." 

"Meaning  that  I  ...   ?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Sometimes,"  he  said  quietly,  in  the  same  pitch. 

Mary,  on  her  knees  beside  the  low  chair  in  which  Phoebe 
sat,  was  scrutinising  adoringly  the  little  face  which  peeped 
out  from  under  its  crocus-coloured  floss  of  hair.  Diana 
had  got  hold  of  her  mother's  hand  and  was  luxuriously 
munching  the  rings,  so  charmingly  cool  to  her  feverish 
gums.  Two  little  teeth,  like  the  dwarf  petals  of  an  ox- 
eye  daisy,  were  already  through. 

"I'm  staring  at  you,  you  precious,"  said  Mary  to  the 
baby,  kissing  one  of  her  little  bronze  shoes,  ' '  to  see  whether 
you're  all  your  mother,  or  some  your  father.  What  do 
you  think  yourself,  Phoebe? — She's  absurdly  like  you,  but 
don't  you  think  there's  something,  just  a  wee  something 
about  her  forehead  and  the  way  her  hair  grows  that  re 
minds  one  of  Owen?  What  do  you  think,  Sally?" 

"I  don't  think  she's  at  all  like  her  father,"  said  Sally 
in  a  peculiar  voice. 

"Nor  I,"  said  Owen.  "She  is  Phoebe  and  Phoebe  only 
from  top  to  toe.  That's  why  I'm  so  very  partial  to  her. 
Just  push  back  that  down  she  calls  hair,  Mary, — and  you  '11 
see  the  little  widow's  peak  that  seals  her  Phoebe's — 
wholly." 

Mary  did  so.  The  little  face  had  a  singularly  winning, 
innocent  look  with  the  soft  hair  thus  strained  back  from 
it.  The  violet  eyes  were  like  two  flowers  suddenly  stripped 
of  their  shading  foliage. 

"Oh,  you  precious!"  cried  Mary,  and  kissed  the  tiny 
"widow's  peak." 

Everyone  looked  on  with  smiles  but  Sally.  She  looked 
on  too,  but  her  expression  was  one  of  sombre  brooding. 
Owen  felt  that  a  sharp  physical  illness  would  be  preferable 
to  this  chronic  sick  anger  against  Sally  which  was  gather 
ing  in  his  heart,  and  of  which  he  could  give  no  direct 


WORLD'S-END  277 

sign.  He  went  over  suddenly  and  held  out  his  big  hand 
to  the  baby.  Instantly  she  put  out  her  little  curved  arms, 
which  as  yet  seemed  to  have  nothing  in  them  so  grim  as 
bones.  Her  face  was  one  shine  of  glee,  the  two  little  daisy- 
petals  showed  like  drops  of  milk  in  her  pink  mouth. 

"How  she  dotes  on  her  daddy!"  laughed  Mary. 

"It  seems  to  be  reciprocal,"  said  Sally. 

The  baby  was  lying  back,  chuckling  with  pleasure,  in 
the  hammock  made  by  the  big  arms.  She  had  got  hold 
of  his  tie  and  jerked  it  rythmically. 

Something  that  she  could  no  more  control  than  the 
beating  of  her  heart  urged  Sally  on. 

"Do  you  love  the  child  because  you're  its  father,  or  do 
you  think  you  would  love  it  in  any  case?"  she  asked  him. 

"I  love  it  because  it's  Phoebe's,"  he  said.  "Except 
for  inconvenient  conventions,  I  should  love  it  in  that  case, 
no  matter  who  happened  to  be  its  father." 

Phoebe's  heart  seemed  to  open  wide,  letting  forth  all 
the  blood  in  Lor  body  at  one  hot  gush;  then  to  shut  so 
that  she  felt  suffocating.  She  bent  forward,  and  began 
to  gather  up  the  scattered  toys  that  lay  about  her  chair. 
Owen  was  thinking  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
understood  how  men  sometimes  beat  women  with  staves. 

Sally  went  further.  It  was  just  as  though  some  per 
verse  demon  were  at  her  elbow,  jogging  it.  jogging  it.  She 
smiled  her  slightly  one-sided  smile  and  said  to  Phoebe: 

"You  have  a  very  complacent  husband,  my  dear 
Phoebe." 

Then  Owen  looked  directly  at  her.  and,  though  he  was 
smiling  too,  there  was  something  in  this  smile  which  gave 
Sally  a  queer  "turn." 

"Yes.  I'm  a  very  uxorious  husband  indeed.  I  remind 
myself  of  the  Biblical  saying — it  were  better  for  a  man  to 
have  a  millstone  hanged  about  his  neck  and  to  be  drowned 
in  the  depths  of  the  sea,  than  to  offend  one  of  these  little 
ones — meaning  of  course,  Phoebe  and  Diana  in  my  hope 
less  case." 

Everyone  laughed  at  this  shamelessly  familiar  sentiment 
from  one  who  had  been  so  long  a  bachelor, — everyone,  that 
is,  except  Sally.  She  felt  somehow  chilled  by  a  vague,  sin 
ister  warning.  She  tried  to  search  his  face  covertly  for 
some  deeper  meaning  than  had  been  expressed  by  his 
words,  but  vainly.  He  had  given  the  baby  back  to  Phoebe, 
and  was  engaging  Aunt  Charlotte  in  conversation. 


278  WORLD'S-END 

Phoebe  drew  her  chair  near  her  father's,  and  Mary  fol 
lowed,  a  still  unsatiated  baby-worshipper. 

Sally  sat  with  one  of  her  thin,  beautifully  arched  feet, 
in  its  well-made  brown  shoe,  on  the  fender,  and  stared 
into  the  fire  through  the  folds  of  the  handkerchief  she 
held  up  to  shield  her  face. 

Feeling,  from  observation  of  her  costume,  that  Miss  Tal- 
liaferro  would  relish  a  compliment  on  her  attire,  Owen 
had  begun  by  saying  that  it  was  delightful  to  meet  a 
wonderful  person  who  managed  to  look  girlish  at  ninety; 
(for  Phoebe  had  told  him  that  her  great-aunt  was  over- 
weeningly  proud  of  her  extreme  age).  And  that  heliotrope 
was  a  marvellously  becoming  shade  to  such  blonde  hair 
and  complexion. 

The  old  lady  bridled,  adjusting  her  stole  of  imitation 
ermine,  which  she  had  slipped  back  on  entering  the  warm 
nursery. 

"Ninety-eight,  me  good  sir,  ninety-eight,"  she  corrected. 
' '  Me  next  birthday  falls  in  April.  As  Mr.  Mortimer  Smith 
used  to  say,  the  spring  conducted  me  to  this  world,  and 
I  would  leave  it  bearing  the  spring  with  me.  Mortimer 
Smith  was  a  gallant  gentleman  in  his  day — and  exceedingly 
gifted.  He  would  have  been  an  eminent  public  writer  had 
he  lacked  other  means  of  subsistence.  I  recall  some  linen 
he  writ  me  which  run  thus: 

"Thy  damask  check,  alike  so  free, 
From  vile  Shakespearean  worm  and  me, 
That   'brier   rose   sans   briers,' — alas! 
Hath  brought  fond  me  to  this  sad  pass. ' ' 

' '  Ah,  now  she 's  off ! "  whispered  Mary  to  Phoebe. 

A  rattling  scratch  and  a  series  of  snuffling  sneezes  at  the 
crack  of  the  threshold  told  that  Wizzy  was  without,  crav 
ing  admission  to  the  presence  of  the  god  of  his  idolatry. 

"Oh,  aren't  you  afraid  for  the  baby?"  asked  Mary 
nervously,  as  Owen  went  to  admit  him.  But  she  was  as 
sured  that  Wizzy  had  overcome  the  first  pangs  of  jealousy 
and  even  allowed  the  baby  to  make  free  with  his  ears,  if 
she  did  not  tug  too  hard.  So  he  came  in  making  a  joyous, 
wriggling  letter  "S"  of  himself,  and  Mary  was  shown 
how  meekly  he  sat  while  Diana  "poored"  his  sleek  little 
head,  which  he  turned  sheepishly  aside  with  dejected  eyes 
looking  from  their  tearful  corners  at  Owen. 

Shortly  after  the  baby's  reception  broke  up,  and  Phoebe 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  279 

went  with  her  father  and  Aunt  Charlotte  to  show  them 
their  rooms. 

Running  back,  about  ten  minutes  later  to  look  for  Aunt 
Charlotte's  " face-d-main,"  which  she  thought  she  must 
have  dropped  in  the  nursery,  Mary  was  surprised  to  find 
Sally  there  alone  with  little  Diana.  The  baby  was  seated 
on  a  white  fur  rug,  hammering  with  one  of  her  little  bronze 
shoes  upon  the  floor,  and  Sally,  chin  on  hand  in  a  low 
chair,  was  regarding  her  with  the  fiercely  confused  ex 
pression  of  a  she-wolf  looking  at  the  child  that  it  has  not 
yet  decided  whether  to  adopt  or  devour. 

Sally  started  as  Mary  spoke,  and  that  dark  flush  settled 
on  her  cheek-bones. 

"The  nurse  had  to  go  downstairs  for  something,  and 
I  said  I  would  stay  here  till  she  returned.  I  came  back 
to  look  for  my  handkerchief." 

Mary  smiled  and  nodded  from  the  white  rug  on  which 
she  had  swooped  down  beside  the  baby.  "Poor  Sally!" 
she  thought,  "how  queer  she  is!  Fancy  making  excuses 
for  wanting  to  see  more  of  such  a  duck  of  an  only  niece!" 

"Isn't  she  the  angelest  thing?"  she  laughed,  tickling 
the  baby,  who  chuckled  wildly  and  said  "  Pr-r-r-r-rr ! " 
through  a  series  of  bubbles. 

"Mary  ..."  said  Sally, —  (she  could  not  help  it  any 
more  than  Dostoievsky's  hero  could  help  circling  closer  and 
closer  about  the  flame  of  justice  which  was  to  burn  him 
to  a  crisp)  .  .  .  "Mary  .  .  .  I  know  the  child  has  Phoebe 's 
colouring, — and  you  said  you  saw  something  like  Owen  in 
her — but, — look  at  her  in  this  light, — from  this  angle." 
(Mary  leaned  nearer  to  Sally.)  "There!  just  that  view 
— don't  you  think  she  looks  like  Richard,  too?" 

Mary  shook  her  head. 

"I  really  can't  see  the  slightest  hint  of  a  likeness  to 
Richard,  Sally." 

"Well.— I  do,"  said  Sally  shortly. 

Here  Giles  came  back  and  both  ladies  left  the  nursery. 


XXXVI 

TT  seemed  to  Owen,  that  had  it  not  been  for  the  cruel 
•*•  hatred  that  he  felt  stealing  from  Sally's  bitter  heart 
and  clouding  all  the  air  as  with  a  fine,  poisonous  dust  that 
must  be  drawn  in  with  every  breath, — it  seemed  to  him 


280  WORLD'S-END 

that,  but  for  this, — these  autumn  days  at  "World 's-End 
would  have  been  the  happiest  that  he  had  ever  known. 
For,  with  that  sure,  intuitive  reading  of  Phoebe  which  had 
been  his  from  the  first,  he  saw  the  struggle  within  her, 
and  was  sure  that  before  long  she  would  confess  all  to 
him.  That  one  cloud  dispelled  by  full  forgiveness,  their 
life  together  would  have  a  serene  beauty  of  which  he  had 
sometimes  dreamed,  but  never  thought  to  experience.  It 
was,  as  he  felt,  a  wonderful  period  of  renewal  for  Phoebe 
as  well  as  for  himself.  As  always,  he  had  that  Arichises- 
like  sense  of  regeneration  from  contact  with  the  soil  of 
his  old  home,  and  now  that  the  child  had  come  and  taken 
her  individual  place  in  their  lives,  he  no  longer  thought 
of  her  as  Eichard's  child,  but  as  Phoebe's.  She  was  as 
like  her  mother  as  one  clear  rose  to  another,  nor  was  there 
any  trace  of  other  parentage  in  line  or  tint  or  gesture. 
Marvellously,  miraculously  it  seemed  to  him  sometimes,  was 
she  all  her  mother.  The  little  hands  had  the  same  ges 
tures,  the  little  feet  sprang  from  the  round  ankles  in  just 
the  same  way;  her  eyes  were  Phoebe's  own,  her  hair,  even 
the  little  mouth  curving  out  from  the  centre,  carved  up 
at  the  corners,  was  Phoebe's  mouth.  As  for  her  bud  of  a 
nose,  it  would  be  in  time  what  shape  it  pleased  God  to 
make  it.  His  feelings  towards  this  child  gave  Owen  that 
quaint  sensation  of  gratitude  to  himself, — to  that  part  of 
himself  not  familiarly  realised, — which  we  feel  when  we 
find  suddenly  that  we  are  not  cowards,  or  ingrates,  or  ut 
ter  egoists,  or  of  the  breed  of  Caliban.  He  had  feared 
that  the  strong  animal  in  him  would  hate  the  child,  and 
he  found  that  there  was  part  of  him  which  was  just  as 
instinctive  as  the  animal  and  even  stronger, — and  which, 
without  ado  or  wrestlings,  accepted  the  fact  of  Phoebe's 
motherhood  as,  in  itself,  a  sacred  thing,  and  which  looked 
on  her  child  as  an  independent  being,  and  not  as  the  off 
spring  of  baseness  and  treachery. 

He  would  not  have  been  human  or  a  man  had  he  not 
suffered  some  deadly  throes  in  facing  the  thought  that  his 
first-born  could  never  be  Phoebe's  first-born  also,  nor  all 
his  love  for  her  wipe  out  the  dark  fact  of  her  child's  par 
entage.  But  for  the  child,  itself,  he  felt  only  tenderness. 
Ever  since  the  tiny  hand  had  clung  to  his  on  the  day  of 
its  birth  he  had  felt  nothing  for  it  but  an  immense  pity, — 
the  sort  of  feeling  that  moved  him  to  care  for  poor 
"Wizzy"  more  than  for  self-sufficing  "Rab"  and  "Bran," 


WORLD'S-END  281 

— and  that  led  him  to  refrain  from  shooting  the  free  things 
of  air  and  wood.  And  musing  on  his  feeling  for  this  baby, 
which  would  have  seemed  so  unnatural  to  most  men,  he 
recalled  a  dream  which  had  haunted  him  ever  since  the 
day  that  as  a  boy  of  fourteen  he  went  quail  shooting 
with  his  father.  This  dream  was  that  he  wounded  a  bird 
which  fluttered  along  a  hedge, — fluttered,  fluttered,  pite- 
otisly  cheeping.  He  would  follow  trying  to  find  it  and 
put  it  out  of  its  pain.  A  long  time  he  wrould  hunt  for  it 
among  the  thick  twigs  of  the  hedge  in  vain.  Then  sud 
denly  he  would  come  upon  it,  but  lo !  when  he  had  it  in 
his  hands,  it  was  a  little,  wounded  child  that  he  held  and 
so  deep  and  painful  would  be  his  feeling  of  pity  that  he 
would  wake  up  with  cold  sweat  on  his  forehead.  Yes,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  this  little  daughter  of  Phoebe's  was 
like  the  little  child  of  his  dream, — something  so  touch- 
ingly  helpless  and  defenceless,  that  his  heart  stirred  just 
for  looking  on  her.  And  as  he  looked  at  her  sometimes 
now,  so  gay  and  confidently  joyous,  tossed  from  hand  to 
hand  by  her  little  band  of  worshippers, — he  would  think: 
"And  if  Sally  had  had  her  way  she  might  nowr  be  one 
of  hundreds  of  forlorn  little  foundlings.  A  poor  little 
bastard  flung  like  a  crumb  into  the  maw  of  chance." 

And  savagely,  and  right  humanly,  he  mused,  with 

grim  pleasure,  on  the  picture  of  Richard  face  to  face  some 
day  with  the  fruit  of  his  ruthlessness, — with  the  little  un 
conscious,  fairy,  flitter-mouse  thing,  who,  for  all  her  deli 
cate  beaut}r,  was  to  be  in  his  life  a  Frankenstein,  absorbing 
all  that  he  had  counted  on,  coming  between  him  and  every 
coveted  good  thing  of  this  life. 

Almost,  when  this  picture  rose  before  him — almost  but 
never  quite, — he  overlooked  the  horror  of  what  it  would 
mean  to  Phoebe,  and  through  her  to  him. 

As  for  Phoebe,  but  for  that  dark  struggle  in  her  heart, 
and  Sally's  cruelty,  and  the  cold  fear  that  touched  her 
softly,  now  and  then,  in  happiest  moments,  as  with  the 
cold  hand  of  some  little,  patient  ape,  waiting  in  the  sha 
dows  for  its  share  of  the  feast, — she  would  have  thought 
herself  in  a  sweet,  homely  heaven,  fashioned  perhaps  by 
some  Martha-like  angel,  who  knew  the  hearts  of  women 
and  their  cravings  for  the  dear,  familiar  ecstasies  of  earth. 
But  always,  when  almost  she  had  forgotten, — in  the  most 
untoward  moments, — while  walking  with  the  man  that  she 
"worshipped  as  she  ought  to  worship  God,"  through  the 


282  WORLD'S-END 

golden  October  woods,  or  riding  with  him  over  the  blue 
mountain  passes,  or  resting  with  her  hand  in  his  by  the 
fireside  while  he  read  aloud  to  her,  or  even  when  she  lay 
in  that  ivory-coloured  love-bed  with  her  head  upon  his 
arm, — softly,  gently,  almost  timidly,  that  chill  hand  of  the 
little  ape  of  fear  would  steal  plucking,  plucking  at  her 
garment  of  joy,  at  her  heart-strings, — the  little  clammy 
hand  that  teased  cringingly  as  if  for  food. 

But,  in  spite  of  this,  much  pure,  wholesome  joy  came  her 
way,  and  she  grasped  it  thankfully,  "lifting  up  her  heart 
in  both  hands"  as  the  old  seer  says, — holding  it  high, 
where  the  little  ape-hand  could  not  touch  it.  These  were 
her  simple  joys  of  every  day,  which  no  man  could  take 
from  her,  which  even  the  uncertain  future  could  not  em 
bitter  in  the  memory,  if  the  gods  themselves  decided  to 
reclaim  them  and  leave  her  desolate  one  day. 

These,  her  hours  of  companionship  in  his  work,  were, 
perhaps,  the  most  precious  of  all  to  her.  She  was  not 
merely  the  cherished  woman  when  she  went  with  him  about 
the  farm  or  read  his  manuscripts  aloud  that  he  might  the 
better  correct  their  faults.  No, — when  she  entered  int(? 
his  plans  about  the  schools,  their  re-organisation,  the  se 
lection  of  teachers,  the  planning  of  new  methods, — when 
she  began  to  understand  his  ideas  and  their  application  j 
when  she  went  with  him  among  the  labourers  and  their  fam 
ilies,  and  took  up  her  own  part  in  the  friendship  and  good- 
fellowship  which  existed  at  World 's-End  between  employer 
and  employed ;  when  she  began  to  comprehend  some  of  the 
fascinating  and  world-old  mastery  of  the  tilling  of  the  soil, 
— some  of  that  awed  pleasure,  as  of  one  participating  in  a 
tranquil  miracle,  which  comes  to  those  who  watch  the  evo 
lution  of  seed  into  grain,  "some  twenty,  some  an  hundred 
fold," — and  the  magic  burgeoning  of  sweet  fruit  from  the 
bitter  rind  of  trees, — when  she  heard  the  manager  counting 
as  simply  on  his  coming  flock  of  winter  lambs  and  the 
advent  of  foals  and  calves  and  piglings  in  due  season  as  he 
did  on  his  future  crop  of  oats  and  wheat  and  maize, — 
when  all  this  sweet,  strong,  primeval  life  began  to 
enfold  and  mingle  with  her  separate  life,  and  when  she 
realised  his  part  in  it,  and  responsibility  towards  it,  and 
that  she  was  allowed  to  share  this  interest  and  responsi 
bility,  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  some  sacrifice  of  herself 
were  needed  by  herself  to  express  fittingly  the  deep,  grate 
ful  joy  that  brimmed  her  heart. 


WORLD'S-END  283 

"And  over  and  over,  over  and  over  she  would  ask  her 
self:  "If  I  told  him  all  would  that  be  a  great  enough 
offering?  If  I  told  him  everything,  would  he  forgive  me, 
and  lovo  me  perhaps  more  for  being  utterly  honest  with 
him? — Or  would  I  break  his  heart  just  to  ease  my  own? 
But,  then,  even  if  he  forgave  me  he  could  never  forget. 
Every  time  he  looked  at  the  child.  .  .  .  '  She  would  al 
ways  break  off  shuddering  at  this  point,  for  the  little, 
clammy  hand  would  creep  out  and  touch  her  softly,  slyly. 
.  .  .  "No!"  her  racked  heart  would  cry— "God  made 
me.  He  knows  I  cannot.  lie  that  made  me  knows  it  isn't 
in  me  to  do  it  ...  I  can't  ...  I  can't!  ..." 

And  for  Sally,  too,  these  days  held  emotions  strangely 
mixed  of  pain,  of  wrath,  of  jealousy,  of  bitterness,  of  sav 
age  tenderness.  She  thought  to  feel  an  untempered  ha 
tred  for  the  child  that  had  come  between  Richard  and 
all  her  hopes  for  him.  And  yet, — though  it  was  so  like 
Phoebe,  though  violet  eyes  instead  of  dusky  black  ones 
gazed  up  at  her  from  its  small  face, — yet  there  was  some 
thing, — a  hint,  a  faint,  elusive  look  now  and  then, — which 
recalled  what  Richard  had  been  when  she  held  him  to  her 
breast  in  the  fierce  rapture  of  her  sensual  maternity.  And 
this  likeness  left  her  no  peace.  What  was  of  Phoebe  in  the 
child  she  loathed,  but  wrhat  she  sensed  of  Richard  in  it 
drew  her  as  with  "hooks  of  steel." 

This  inner  struggle  made  her  coldly  repellant  in  her 
manner  to  the  baby.  She  had  never  taken  it  in  her  arms 
since  that  first  day  when  Mary  ran  up  the  front  steps 
and  thrust  it  on  her.  But  sometimes  she  ached  to  do  so, 
and  the  more  hungry  her  longing,  the  harsher  was  the  cold 
ness  of  her  voice  and  look. 

Giles  one  day,  quite  out  of  patience  with  this  unnatu 
ral  relative  of  so  supremely  delectable  a  baby,  had  broken 
from  her  customary  shell  of  reserve  and  expressed  her 
self  in  forcible  terms  to  Phoebe. 

"If  you'll  pardon  me,  m'rn,  I  can't  abide  Mrs.  Bryce 
coming  to  the  nursery.  She  do  have  that  sour  an  ex 
pression  I  fear,  sometimes,  'twill  curdle  the  milk  in  the 
poor  child's  stommick.  A  fiercer  looking  lady,  begging 
your  pardon,  m'm— what  with  these  jetty  brows  and 
that  p'inted  nose, — I  pray  I  may  never  be 'old  more. 
Wy  do  she  come,  ni'ni,  if  'tis  only  to  gaze  so  grim-like  at 
the  precious  pet?" 

"Poor  Mrs.  Bryce  isn't  at  all  well,  you  know,  Giles," 


284  WORLD'S-END 

Phoebe  had  answered,  "she  has  some  dreadful  trouble 
with  her  heart.  "We  must  feel  sorry  for  her,  not  vexed 
with  her." 

"If  you'll  pardon  me,  m'm,"  Giles  had  retorted,  "the 
trouble  with  her  heart  is  that  'tis  a  main  unkind  one. 
Many  folks  has  that  trouble,  m'm,  as  lives  to  a  green  old 
age.  But  all  I  says,  m'm,  is  that  I  wishes  earnest  she 
wouldn  't  set  her  foot  more  in  this  nursery. ' ' 

"But  Giles,  she  comes  so  seldom." 
'  'Seldom,'  say  you!  Begging  your  pardon,  m'm,  that 
only  shows  what  secret,  hid  ways  she  'as  of  be'aving.  'Sel 
dom!' -Wy  it's  all  hours  she  do  be  a-stepping  in, — soft- 
foot  as  a  cat,  asking  your  pardon,  m'm.  Sometimes 
she  do  but  turn  about  the  room,  just  touching  the  toys, 
maybe,  with  them  long,  hard  fingers.  Then,  again,  she'll 
sit  and  browse  in  yonder  chair  for  nigh  an  hour, — with 
them  dull,  black  eyes  fixed  on  the  dear  lamb  as  if  she  was 
overlookin'  her.  I  tell  you,  m'm,  'tis  not  wholesome  for 
a  babe  to  be  eyed  like  it  was  a  newt  or  a  toad." 

Phoebe  felt  worried,  she  could  not  tell  why  exactly. 
"Has  she  been  in  today,  Giles?" 

"That  she  'as,  m'm.  I  was  all  in  a  tirrit  w'en  she  went 
out.  Silence  and  dark  looks  is  an  ill  combination,  m'm." 

"Does  she  ever  hold  the  baby?" 

' '  Not  she ! — She  but  sits  and  glowers  at  it  like. ' ' 

"Doesn't  she  ever  talk  with  you,  Giles?" 

"Oh,  ay! — Sometimes  she'll  put  the  ancient  question 
I  be  that  sick  of — 'And  how  do  ye  like  Virginia?'  or  that 
other  nigh  as  wearing:  'And  were  ye  not  afraid  of  the 
black  folk  at  first?'  Or  she'll  ask  me  how  many  teeth 
the  baby  has  now.  Yes,  m'm,  she'll  ask  me  that  the  very 
day  after  I've  told  her  twice  as  how  the  last  one  have  just 
pricked  through.  'Tis  trying,  'tis  sore  trying,  m'm.  I 
do  wish  humbly  as  I  might  be  saved  from  it." 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  don't  see  what  I  can  do,  Giles.  She 
is  Mr.  Kandolph's  sister,  you  know,  and  I  wouldn't  hurt 
her  feelings  for  anything." 

"Well,  m'm,  of  course  you  know  best.  But  the  Master 
is  not  always  so  soft  with  her.  Five  or  six  is  the  smart 
raps  I  've  seen  him  give  her  in  this  very  room.  Not  being 
in  their  confidence,  begging  your  pardon,  m  'm,  I  'ad  no  key 
to  the  'idden  meaning  of  his  words, — but  I  could  see  that 
each  one  'it  'ome.  And  I  confess,  m'm,  'twas  a  great 
pleasure  to  me,  w'ich  of  course  it  'adn't  ought  to  be,  but 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  285 

then,  m'm,  we're  all  'uman,  queen  as  well  as  kitchen- 
maid.  And  of  course,  as  'tis  past  mending,  I  must  just 
bear  it  as  I  may.  But  when  the  Madam  goes  on  a  visit 
per'aps,  or  somew'ere  for  her  health,  Martha  Giles  will 
not  'urt  herself  with  weeping." 

Phoebe  recounted  this  conversation  to  Owen,  saying 
rather  timidly  when  she  ended : 

' '  Don 't  you  think,  perhaps,  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing 
if  I  went  away  somewhere  just  for  a  little  while,  and  took 
the  baby  with  me?  Mary  would  come,  too,  I  know.  You 
see,  it  must  be  so  hard  on  poor  Cousin  Sally,  having  me 
here  in  her  place,  and  the  baby  makes  it  worse  somehow. 
Don't  you  think  that  would  be  a  good  plan?" 

They  were  standing  before  the  fire  in  her  bedroom  when 
Phoebe  said  this,  and  Owen  sat  down  on  the  big  lounge 
and  drew  her  down  beside  him  before  he  answered.  Then, 
with  his  aria  about  her,  he  said:  "Upon  my  word,  you 
suggest  deserting  me  as  coolly  as  you  would  suggest  a  walk. 
Are  you  so  sure  of  my  coolness?" 

Phoebe  bent  her  head,  turning  and  re-turning  the  wed 
ding  ring  on  the  brown  hand  that  held  her  waist, — the  ring 
which  Mary  had  once  wondered  whether  he  would  wear. 
He  held  her  a  little  closer,  then  bent  and  looked  into 
her  shy  face  teasingly.  "So  you  really  want  to  divorce 
yourself  from  my  'bed  and  board,'  just  because  Sally  is  a 
crank?" 

"No— no,   Owen.  .  .  .   ' 

"  'No — no'?  Then  why  did  you  suggest  such  a  harsh 
possibility  ? — Don 't  you  know.  .  .  .  '  He  held  her  to  him 
with  sudden  passion.  "Don't  you  know  that  I  am  a  hope 
less  ass  about  leaving  you  even  for  twenty-four  hours  on 
business?" 

"I  ...  I.  ...   " 

"'  I  ...  I.  ...  '  Guilt  makes  you  stammer.  A  guilty 
conscience.  .  .  .  You  are  tired  of  me  and  you  make  poor 
Sally  the  excuse." 

"Oh,  don't,  don't  say  it!  ...  even  in  fun  ..."  she 
pleaded,  and  he  heard  tears  in  her  voice.  He  grasped  her 
suddenly  and  set  her  upon  his  knee,  where  he  could  see 
her  face. 

"Phoebe,"  he  said, — his  voice  shook — "Phoebe, — how 
much  do  you  love  me  ?  .  .  .  Do  you  really  love  me  ?  Am 
I  first?" 


286  WORLD'S-END 

She  flung  herself  against  his  breast. 

"Oh,  you  know  .  .  .  you  know  ..."  she  whispered, 
"first,  last,  best,  all, — more  than  anyone  ever  loved  any 
one, — more  than  I  ought, — more  than  God  wants  me  to. 
.  .  .  '  She  turned  up  her  mouth  to  his.  ' '  I  can 't  speak 
it  ...  "  she  whispered,  almost  sobbing.  "Kiss  me  .  .  . 
kiss  me,  and  feel  it." 

Through  that  long  kiss  they  heard  the  flutter  of  the 
wood  fire,  the  ticking  of  the  little  travelling  clock,  the  beat 
ing  of  their  own  quickened  hearts.  Long,  long  minutes 
seemed  to  flow  by,  all  gold  with  passion.  Phoebe  wished 
that  she  might  die  before  that  long  kiss  ended,  and  the 
little  ape-hand  touched  her  chilly  again. 

But,  with  Owen,  the  fruit  of  this  conversation  wag  not 
only  that  exquisite  kiss  of  married  lovers.  He  thought  that 
he  saw  a  door  of  escape  opening  from  the  situation  which 
tried  him  almost  to  the  snapping  point  sometimes. 

If  Sally  grew  to  love  the  child  that  would  solve  several 
problems.  In  that  case  she  would  unconsciously  take  the 
child's  part  against  fate,  even  against  Richard  as  far  as 
lesser  matters  went.  She  would  stop  goading  Phoebe  with 
that  two-edged  tongue  of  hers,  in  what  she  thought  was 
her  secret  garden  of  cruelty.  She  would  resign  herself 
more  or  less  philosophically  to  a  position  which  allowed 
her  to  be  near  the  child.  And  he  determined  to  help  her 
break  through  the  obstinacy  of  prejudice  which  he  felt 
instinctively  was  all  that  held  her  back  from  that  lovely 
little  being,  who,  after  all,  was  compact  of  her  own  flesh 
and  blood. 

His  opportunity  came  two  days  later  when  Mary  and 
Phoebe  had  set  off  on  a  gay  expedition  after  chestnuts, 
taking  America  and  two  of  Aunt  Polly's  grandchildren 
with  them.  The  very  names  of  these  twin  pickaninnies 
set  them  off  in  gales  of  laughter.  One,  the  little  girl,  was 
called  Buena  Vista,  and  the  other,  a  boy,  Buenos  Ayres. 
Owen,  from  his  study,  where  he  and  Downer  were  working 
out  the  problem  of  the  autumn  sale  and  packing  of  the 
World 's-End  apples,  smiled  as  he  heard  Mary's  little  stac 
cato  rill  of  mirth  mingling  with  Phoebe's  girlish  "ha-ha- 
ha."  He  knew  that  Sally,  who  did  not  feel  strong  that  day, 
was  lying  on  the  sofa  in  the  library  with  a  book  for  com 
pany.  As  soon  as  he  had  finished  with  Downer  he  went 
up  to  the  nursery.  Little  Diana  had  just  come  in  from 
her  afternoon  walk  (the  "smitch  of  cold"  had  long  since 


WORLD'S-END  28T 

disappeared),  aud  Giles  was  "hulling"  her  of  white  coat 
arid  leggings  and  mittens  as  though  she  were  a  rosy  little 
fruit  Avith  a  white  rind. 

"Will  you  come  with  Owen,  Dido?"  he  asked,  holding 
out  the  big  hands  that  always  delighted  her.  She  simply 
flung  herself  into  them. 

"Very  fond  of  her  dear  dada  she  is,  to  he  sure,"  smiled 
Giles.  ' '  There 's  no  one  she  goes  to  so  willing  as  she  does 
to  you,  sir;  excepting,  of  course,  the  mistress." 

"Her  ladyship  knows  that  my  hig  arms  make  a 
monstrously  'comfy'  throne  for  her." 

"  'Er  little  'ighness  it  ought  to  be,  sir,  asking  your 
pardon,  but  she  'ave  got  such  denty,  winsome  ways  with 
her,  the  love  ! ' ' 

Owen  took  Diana  off  while  Giles  went  to  Hannah's  room 
for  a  cup  of  tea,  and  told  her  "it  was  the  beautifullest 
sight  as  ever  was,  to  see  such  a  fine,  splendid  gentle 
man  a-bearing  that  sweet  mite  as  you  might  say  a  bough 
bears  a  blossom.  That  was  the  only  sense  in  marriage, 
so  it  was,  the  blessed  hinfants.  And  for  her  part  it  did 
seem  a  hard  dispensation  of  Providence  as  it  should 
take  two  to  make  'em.  Many  a  woman  craved  the  com 
fort  of  a  child  that  wouldn't  be  worritted  along  of  a 
man. ' ' 

Owen  went  to  the  library,  and  paused  in  the  doorway, 
seemingly  surprised  to  find  Sally  on  the  sofa. 

"Do  come  in  ...  and  shut  the  door,"  she  said  rather 
pettishly,  "there's  a  dreadful  draught." 

"Shan't  we  be  disturbing  you?"  he  objected. 

"Not  at  all  ...  not  at  all  ...  I  can  concentrate  my 
mind  perfectly  with  any  amount  of  noise  going  on." 

"Di  isn't  a  very  noisy  baby,"  he  assured  her  gravely, 
feeling  rather  amused  at  her  prickly  reception  of  what 
he  knew  was  a  secret  pleasure.  "She  will  find  food 
for  reflection  in  my  watch  chain  and  watch  for  the  next 
hour." 

He  ensconced  himself  in  a  big  leather  arm-chair  with 
the  baby,  while  Sally  returned  with  feverish  application 
to  her  book. 

"Blow,  baby  .  .  .  blow  hard,"  whispered  Owen,  holding 
his  thumb  to  the  spring  of  his  watch-case. 

Diana  made  a  funny  little  sputtering  noise,  her  cheeks 
like  bubbles  with  her  desperate  effort.  Open  flew  the 
watch ! 


288  WORLD'S-END 

"A-klee-klee-klee-klee!"  chuckled  she,  bouncing  in  his 
grasp  with  delight. 

This  went  on  for  several  minutes.  Then  Sally  rested 
her  book  on  her  knee  with  one  eyebrow  slightly  lifted. 

"It  is  rather  difficult  to  keep  one's  attention  on  a  seri 
ous  book  like  this,  with  a  baby  having  hysterics  over  a 
watch  ..."  she  admitted. 

"Perhaps  we'd  better  go,"  suggested  Owen,  half  rising, 
"I  can  take  her  to  my  study.  It's  very  warm  in  there." 

"No— pray  don't,"  said  Sally.  "To  tell  you  the  truth 
I  was  rather  lonely.  This  keeping  quiet  is  a  hard  dose  for 
me  to  swallow.  I'll  enjoy  having  you  to  myself  for  a 
little  while — if  it  won't  bore  you." 

"Dear  old  Sally,"  he  said  affectionately,  bending  over 
Diana's  little  head,  to  squeeze  her  thin  hand  in  that  way 
he  had.  (The  actual  sight  of  her  worn,  sickly  face  when, 
as  now,  it  was  undistorted  by  bitter  feeling  always  moved 
him.)  "When  did  you  ever  bore  me? — In  fact,  I'm  vain 
enough  to  think  that  we've  never  yet  bored  each  other." 

Sally  smiled — a  very  melancholy,  proud  smile  it  was. 
"Oh,  semi-invalids  always  bore  people;  we  derelicts  are 
a  sort  of  moral  dumb-bells  to  exercise  unselfishness.  Look 
at  Mary.  ...  Do  you  think  it  has  amused  her  being  shut 
up  with  me  all  these  months?  That  woman,"  she  con 
tinued,  her  lip  trembling,  "is  an  angel.  .  .  .  ' 

"Ah,  the  angels  are  pallid  gentry  beside  Mary,"  he  as 
sented  warmly. 

"Da-da-da-da,"  broke  in  Diana,  tugging  with  both  hands 
at  the  watch.  "  Pr-r-r-r-r-r ! "  she  sputtered  at  it,  cover 
ing  it  with  tiny  drops  from  her  little  wet,  teething 
mouth. 

"There!"  said  Owen,  and  the  magic  watch  blew  open. 

"I  think  I'll  go  back  to  my  book,"  Sally  remarked 
drily,  and  took  it  up  again.  Owen  noticed  suddenly  that 
it  was  a  volume  of  Brieux's  plays.  Could  she  be  reading 
"Maternite"  .  .  .  That  would  be  an  odd  coincidence.  .  .  . 
He  wondered  how  Sally  would  relish  the  famous  French 
man's  view  of  conventional  chastity.  Then  he  smiled,  no 
ticing  that  her  eyes  were  fixed,  not  following  the  printed 
lines. 

Diana  suddenly  twisted  away  from  the  watch,  with  the 
imperious  fickleness  of  babyhood,  and  lunging  forward 
made  a  snatch  at  M.  Brieux. 

"She  wants  to  go  to  you,  I  believe,"  said  Owen,  holding 


WORLD'S-END  289 

on  to  her  little  flounce-like  skirt  as  he  had  seen  Giles  do. 
"But  you  feel  too  seedy  to  have  her,  don't  you?" 

Sally  put  down  the  book  again,  and  he  saw  that  the 
dusky  red  had  come  into  her  cheeks.  Yes,  the  baby  was 
imperatively  motioning  to  go  to  her.  Her  little  arms  were 
stretched  out,  her  bronze  shoes  beating  a  tattoo  of  impa 
tient  demand. 

"Da-da-da."  she  cried  passionately  to  Sally,  saying 
plainly,  in  her  language  of  intonation,  "Take  me!  Take 
me !  Take  me  at  once ! ' ' 

Sally  frowned  nervously,  hesitated,  then  reached  forward 
and  took  the  little  springing  form.  The  baby  sat  still  for 
a  brief  second  upon  the  vicufia  rug  that  covered  her 
grandmother's  thin  knees,  and  gazed  at  her  as  though  en 
raptured  with  the  dark,  gloomy  face.  Then,  suddenly,  she 
dived  forward  and  planted  a  wide,  wet,  sucking  kiss  on 
Sally's  chin.  Her  little  hand  went  up  "pooring"  the  sal 
low  cheek. 

"Why,  it  seems  a  case  of  perfect  infatuation,"  laughed 
Owen. 

In  Sally's  poor,  ailing  heart  boiled  the  strangest  mix 
ture  of  repulsion  and  fierce  tenderness.  She  felt,  thus 
holding  Eichard's  child,  as  though  the  full-blown  rose  of 
her  maternity  had  shut  and  become  a  bud  again.  She 
held  the  baby  to  her,  with  the  savage  embrace  that  babies 
themselves  bestow  on  kittens,  then  she  set  her  sharply 
off  again  on  the  apex  of  her  knees,  lifted  together  under 
the  fur  rug. 

"She's  a  little  light-o'-love,"  she  muttered  in  an  in 
describable  voice.  "Why  should  she  take  this  sudden 
fancy  to  an  unprepossessing  old  woman? — You're  a  little 
light-o-'-love,  do  you  hear?"  she  said  to  the  baby,  and 
shook  her  slightly  where  she  held  her  poised. 

Hot  anger  filled  Owen,  but  he  sat  quite  still,  polishing 
with  his  handkerchief  the  watch  that  Diana  had  bedewed. 

The  baby  was  enchanted  with  this  shaking.  She  crowed 
and  laughed  joyously,  kicking  her  bronze  shoes  against 
Sally's  breast. 

"Little  light-o'-love.  .  .  .  Little  light-o'-love  ..." 
said  Sally  again.  Diana  continued  her  gleeful  bouncing 
and  crowing. 

"You  like  the  name  .  .  .  eh?"  said  Sally  grimly. 

The  baby  thrust  down  her  flossy  poll  and  began  to 
munch  with  her  warm,  slobbering  little  mouth  on  Sally's 


290  WORLD'S-END 

rings.  Those  warm,  munching  lips  thrilled  the  perverse, 
passionate  woman  as  no  lover's  kiss  had  ever  done.  She 
coloured  darkly,  then  suddenly  she  thrust  her  other  hand 
under  the  short  skirts  and  felt  the  small  bare  thighs,  soft 
as  rice-paper. 

"This  child  is  ridiculously  dressed,"  she  exclaimed  in 
an  angry  voice.  "She  is  insufficiently  clad  for  this  time 
of  year.  You  should  speak  to  Phoebe,  or  to  that  conceited 
English  nurse.  Did  you  bring  her  half-naked,  like  this, 
through  those  draughty  halls?" 

' '  The  halls  were  quite  warm, ' '  said  Owen,  ' '  but  I  '11  tell 
Phoebe  that  you  think  the  baby  had  better  have  warmer 
things  on. ' ' 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Owen,"  she  said  sharply,  "don't 
mention  me  in  the  matter!  ...  A  meddlesome.  ..." 
She  had  almost  said  "grandmother."  Her  heart  gave  a 
dreadful,  hot  stab.  She  pretended  that  she  had  choked; 
coughed  two  or  three  times,  and  went  on.  "A  meddle 
some  sister-in-law  is  the  most  unbearable  of  family  afflic 
tions.  Just  speak  to  that  English  hop-pole  yourself." 

"Very  well,  ...  I  will,"  said  Owen. 

He  told  himself  that  he  was  looking  on  at  a  drama  which 
made  the  great  plays  now  lying  on  the  floor  by  the  sofa 
seem  hackneyed.  And  he  wondered  at  the  dual  sense  in 
men  which  could  permit  him  such  a  thought  at  such  a  mo 
ment.  Just  here  Jonathan  came  in  and  said  that  Mr. 
Downer  would  like  to  see  the  master  again. 

"Shall  I  take  her  with  me?"  asked  Owen  of  Sally,  "or 
would  you  mind  keeping  her  till  I  come  back?  I  shan't 
be  gone  long." 

"I'll  keep  her,"  said  Sally  ungraciously. 

Owen  went  out  with  Jonathan. 

For  the  first  time  Sally  was  alone  with  her  grandchild  in 
her  arms.  She  lay  perfectly  still,  while  Diana,  absorbed, 
tried  to  pluck  the  little  silver  buttons  from  her  grey  crepe 
blouse,  as  though  they  had  been  some  sort  of  berries.  Then 
all  at  once,  sitting  up  among  the  heaped  cushions,  Sally 
caught  the  baby  to  her,  pressing  against  her  thin  breast, 
withered  by  the  milk  that  had  so  long  since  ebbed  from  it, 
.  .  .  the  shining  head,  the  little  stomach  in  its  cuirass 
of  embroidery,  the  soft  dimpled  arms  and  firm,  ener 
getic  legs.  Into  a  sort  of  living  bundle  of  sweetness 
she  crumpled  the  child  as  though  she  would  crush  it  with 
savage  tenderness  to  a  compass  small  enough  to  be  covered 


WORLD'S-END  291 

by  one  passionate  kiss.  And  from  head  to  feet  she  caressed 
it  with  her  dry,  burning  lips,  the  little  head,  the  little 
stomach,  the  little  knees,  the  little  feet,  the  little  hands. 

The  baby  found  these  tickling  caresses  delightful.  She 
squirmed  and  chuckled  with  pleasure,  seizing  in  either 
hand  black-and-grey  locks  of  the  head  that  darted  over  her 
with  the  swiftness  of  a  feeding  bird.  And  she  tugged  until 
the  tears  came  to  Sally's  eyes,  bracing  her  little  back 
against  her  grandmother's  bony  arm,  and  pressing  with 
both  feet  against  her  body. 

When  Owen  returned  some  twenty  minutes  later  Sally 
was  leaning  back  again  among  the  cushions,  and  on  her 
breast,  its  pink  mouth  making  a  little  ring  of  coral  about 
the  root  of  its  small  thumb,  the  baby  lay  fast  asleep. 

"I'll  take  her  now,"  he  said,  bending  over. 

But  she  answered  quickly : 

"No.  It's  very  bad  for  a  child  to  be  waked  out  of  a 
sound  sleep.  I'll  carry  her  to  the  nursery  myself." 

"But  won't  that  be  too  much  exertion  for  you?"  he  ob 
jected. 

She  smiled  enigmatically. 

"My  heart  can  support  a  greater  strain  than  carrying  a 
baby  up  an  easy  flight  of  stairs, ' '  she  said. 

And  she  took  the  child  to  the  nursery,  and  laid  it  herself 
in  its  crib,  while  Owen  went  to  look  for  Giles. 


XXXVII 

pOIJSIN  MARY,"  said  Phoebe  only  the  next  day,  "did 
you  ever  have  a  feeling  as  if  the  gods  were  treating 
you  as  the  Aztecs  used  to  treat  the  people  they  had  se 
lected  for  a  sacrifice?" 

' '  Dear  child !  What  a  doleful  fancy  for  such  a  day ! 
No.  I  don't  think  I  ever  felt  like  that.  What  makes  you 
say  such  a  thing?" 

"It's  just  that  it  all  seems  too  beautiful,  too  happy,  too 
perfect,  too  peaceful.  ..."  said  Phoebe  slowly.  "  If  I  had 
tried  to  imagine  anything  as  beautiful  as  my  life  is  now,  I 
couldn't  possibly  have  done  it,  Cousin  Mary.  Look,  .  .  . 
look  at  it  all. ' ' 

She  turned  slowly,  her  hands  against  her  breast.  * '  Look 
at  me,  ...  in  the  midst  of  it,  ...  part  of  it.  Look,"  her 


292  WORLD'S-END 

voice  dropped,  ' '  at  him.  ..."  She  lifted  her  soft,  impas 
sioned  eyes  to  where  Owen  was  standing  near  Wrexhill,  the 
apple  merchant,  while  they  both  regarded  seriously  the 
dark  winesap  which  Owen  was  turning  in  his  hands.  ' '  And 
he  is  mine.  ..."  she  ended  in  a  whisper,  wonder  and  a 
sort  of  hushed  dread  in  her  voice. 

Mary  flinched  like  one  grasped  upon  a  bruise.  Then  she 
said,  also  speaking  in  a  low  tone : 

"I  know  what  you  mean  now,  dear.  Love  and  fear  al 
ways  go  hand  in  hand.  It's  like  the  great  mystery  of 
death  that  makes  all  the  precious  things  of  this  life  more 
precious." 

But  as  she  spoke  she  thought  how  love  had  divided  her 
from,  love,  far  more  completely  than  death  would  have 
done. 

"Don't  .  .  .  don't  ..."  pleaded  Phoebe,  shivering  and 
paling  in  the  bright  sunlight,  "don't  speak  of  death.  It 
always  seems  to  me  as  if  it  turned  and  looked  at  us  when 
we  speak  its  name." 

Mary  smiled  at  her  affectionately  and  a  little  sadly. 
"Ah,  Phoebe  dear,"  she  said,  "it's  a  wonderful  thing  to 
see  a  happiness  so  big  that  it  scares  a  little  mortal.  That 
must  be  a  sweet  sort  of  fright.  You  remind  me  of  your 
own  baby,  when  I  put  a  handkerchief  over  my  face  and 
then  cry  'Boo !'  and  let  her  snatch  it  off.  She  has  the  most 
delicious  thrills  of  terror — then  off  comes  the  handkerchief 
and  lo !  there's  just  Mary's  face  under  it.  There's  just 
love 's  face  under  that  dread  of  yours.  So  I  can 't  pity  you 
too  much,  dear  fanciful." 

"I  know,"  said  Phoebe  wistfully,  "it's  wrong  and  maybe 
it's  silly,  .  .  .  but  ...  I  just  can't  help  it,  Cousin  Mary." 

She  and  Mary  had  gone  with  Owen  to  the  orchard  to 
watch  the  packing  of  the  apples.  There  is  no  rural 
sight  more  lovely  than  the  apple  harvest  in  Virginia  on  a 
perfect  autumn  day  such  as  this.  The  sunlight  had  that 
joyous  sparkle  unknown  to  summer,  the  light  October  haze, 
dimly,  dreamily  blue,  gauzed  the  woods  and  mountains  and 
far  horizon  line,  tempering  the  brilliant  foliage  from  a 
paroquet-like  gaudiness  to  the  soft  glow  of  stuffs  from 
Kashmir. 

Against  this  delicate  drop-scene  with  which  nature  had 
set  her  pretty  drama  of  the  apple  gatherers  ran  the  aisles 
of  vigorous  young  trees,  some  three  thousand  of  them,  now 
in  their  prime,  all  glistening  with  round,  shaded  red  fruit, 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  293 

or  the  greenish-yellow  of  Albemarle  pippins.  And  these 
dark  and  pale-red  and  waxen-yellow  balls,  clustering  along 
the  drooping  boughs,  were  magically  gay  and  joyous 
against  that  pale-blue  distant  haze. 

Near  Mary  and  Phoebe  stood  the  sorting-bin,  like  a  tarned 
"gyascutus"  with  its  long  legs  and  short  legs  so  adjusted 
that  the  apples  slid  easily  from  the  cushion  at  its  upper 
end  along  the  slats  under  the  hands  of  the  sorters.  And 
from  every  side,  down  the  aisle  at  whose  head  it  stood, 
came  the  gatherers  with  their  bushel-baskets  of  "split- 
wood,"  fresh  and  white  as  new  cut  chips  and  brimming 
with  the  bright  globes  of  shaded  red,  for  in  this  part  of 
the  orchard  nearly  all  the  trees  were  wine-saps. 

Ladders  of  white  pine,  pointed  at  the  top  so  as  to  fit 
firmly  between  the  smaller  twigs,  were  placed  so  that  the 
men  might  reach  the  higher  fruit,  but  the  small  fry 
swarmed  up  regardless  of  other  aid  than  legs  and  arms, 
and  their  brown  and  pink  faces  could  be  seen  among  the 
foliage,  as  with  a  chirp  of  victory  they  would  cull  Sappho's 
' '  topmost  apple  of  all ' '  that  had  escaped  those  on  the  lad 
ders. 

Men  and  boys  for  the  most  part  wore  faded  blue  over 
alls,  and  these  oft-washed  garments  seemed  cut  from  a  bit 
of  that  blue-haze  curtain  dropped  at  the  back  of  the  scene. 

"Phoebe  dear,"  said  Mary,  after  watching  this  charm 
ing  sight  for  some  moments  in  silence,  "you've  heard  of 
the  curiously  impious  expression,  'tempting  Providence.' 
Well,  .  .  .  that  is  what  you  '11  be  doing  if  you  indulge  one 
single  more  gloomy  thought  in  a  scene  like  this. ' ' 

"  I  '11  try  not  to, ' '  said  Phoebe,  and  she  slipped  her  hand 
in  Mary's  arm  and  pressed  close  to  her. 

"Come  over  here,"  called  Owen  at  this  point;  "Mr. 
"Wrexhill  wants  to  show  you  how  apples  are  packed  and 
sorted." 

They  went,  picking  their  way  through  heaps  of  discarded 
fruit,  edging  gingerly  between  the  sorting-bin  and  the  team 
of  big  grey  Clydesdales  drawn  up  beside  it. 

Owen  was  standing  with  "Wrexhill  near  Downer,  who 
with  his  own  hands  was  turning  the  press  that  fixed  the 
barrel  heads  in  place.  And  the  old  apple  merchant,  with 
his  shrewd,  clever  eyes  that  could  fix  the  diameter  of  an 
apple  in  inches  and  eighths  without  the  help  of  a  pocket- 
rule,  showed  them  how  the  fruit  was  sorted  into  barrels  of 
"firsts"  and  "seconds."  Then,  to  prove  the  accuracy  of 


>4  WORLD'S-END 

3  eye,  he  cut  an  apple  in  two  and  laid  his  pocket-rule 
ross  it. 

"Exactly  two  inches  and  a  half!"  cried  Phoebe  and 
ary,  with  a  nai've  surprise  that  warmed  the  professional 
ckles  of  the  old  merchant's  heart. 

After  they  had  watched  the  sorting  and  packing  for  some 
ne  Phoebe  took  Mary's  hand  and  said:    "I  must,  I  must 
up  one  of  those  lovely  ladders!" 

She  ran  off,  pulling  Mary  with  her,  and  Owen  called 
ter  her. 

"Be  careful,  dear.  "Watch  her,  Mary.  She's  a  reckless 
.p  at  times." 

Phoebe   selected   a  ladder  that  had   just  been   placed 
ainst  a  tree  so  laden  with  the  lovely  fruit  that  it  looked 
:e  a  decoration  in  a  child 's  picture-book. 
Grasping  the   sides   with   her   strong   little  hands,    she 
mnted  quickly  and  surely,  the  ladder  giving  to  her  mo 
ms  with  the  pliant  boughs  against  which  it  leaned. 
"Take  care  .  .  .  take  care,  darling!"  called  Mary  from 
e  solid  earth. 

A  little,  rapturous  laugh  fell  down  upon  her.  "Mary! 
m  in  fairyland !  You  must  try  it,  too ! ' ' 
All  about  her  was  the  hollowed  fret- work  of  the  foliage, 
:e  a  tent  of  jade  in  an  Oriental  fairy-tale,  set  with  round 
rnelions.  And  through  the  twinkling  leaves  little  slivers 
violet  sky  peeped  at  her,  and  the  soft  air,  sweet  with 
e  smell  of  sun-warmed  apples,  caressed  her  face.  She 
ucked  the  fruit  nearest  her  hand,  and  came  down  again, 
(inching  it  as  she  descended. 

"It's  too  beautiful  to  keep  still,  Mary,"  she  said  when 
e  stood  beside  her.  "Let's  go  for  a  walk  and  tell  Owen 
follow  us  when  he's  finished.  But  first  I  must  give  those 
ar,  patient  things  some  apples."  She  went  over  to  the 
ydesdales  and  fed  them  wind-falls  until  the  saliva  of 
urmandise  dropped  from  their  plusby  lips. 
"Good-day,  Mr.  Wrexhill,"  she  called;  "thank  you  so 
ich  for  showing  me  the  mysteries. ' ' 
"You  must  come  again  day  after  tomorrow,  ma'am,"  he 
plied,  "and  see  us  do  fancy  packing  with  the  pippins 
baskets. ' ' 

"I'll  catch  you  up  in  about  an  hour,"  Owen  called  as 
ey  went  off  in  the  direction  of  the  mill.  "You  can  ad- 
ire  the  view  from  Logan's  Peak  while  you  wait  for  me." 
They  went  to  the  northeast  corner  of  the  orchard  and 


WORLD'S-END  2£ 

crossed  the  brown  mill  stream  by  a  single  plank  abo 
three  feet  from  the  ground.  With  country-girlish  pri< 
in  their  steady  heads,  they  passed  over  swiftly  and  light! 
Mary  balancing  with  her  arms,  but  Phoebe  still  munchii 
her  big  apple.  As  they  went  across  the  fields  towards  t 
road  that  led  to  Logan's  Peak,  their  feet  crushed  the  litl 
mauve-flowered  stalks  of  pennyroyal,  and  its  sharp  fra 
ranee  rose  about  them. 

"How  I  love  that  smell!"  cried  Phoebe,  throwing  t 
core  of  her  apple  at  a  flock  of  geese  that  rose  with  scol 
ing.  discordant  shrieks  and  settled  in  a  little  flotilla  on  t 
mill  pond.  "It  means  Virginia  to  me  almost  more  th, 
anything.  Oh,  Cousin  Mary!"  The  shadow  stole  over  h 
face  again.  "Can't  you  see  how  I  feel?  .  .  .  Everythi: 
that  I  love  most  I  have  so  fully  and  all  together.  The  go 
arc  jealous,  Mary." 

"You  talk  like  a  little  pagan,"  said  Mary.  "I  belie 
you  are  one  at  heart.  But  I'm  not  going  to  listen  to  yo 
heresies.  The  woes  of  the  too-happy  don't  move  me,  son 
how." 

Phoebe  smiled  a  little  absently,  then  she  said,  turni: 
a  wistful,  anxious  face  to  Mary  as  she  walked  at  h 
side  with  both  hands  about  her  arm:  "Tell  me,  dei 
...  do  you  think  that  Owen  is  happv,  too?  .  .  .  Kea> 
happy?'' 

Mary  laughed,  and,  as  often,  that  laugh  hid  things  r 
so  joyous. 

"If  symptoms  can  be  relied  on,"  she  answered  light 
"I  should  say  he  had  a  desperate  attack  of  happiness." 

"Only  'an  attack'?  .  .  .  You  think  it  will  wear  c 
like  a  fever?" 

"Phoebe!  .  .  .     You  really  try  one's  patience.     Do 
us  enjoy  this  lovely  day  and  stop  croaking  like  a  lit 
'corbie.' " 

''Sometimes,"  said  Phoebe  persistently,  "I  feel  thin 
coming,  Cousin  Mary." 

:' That's  against  all  sound  philosophy." 

"I'm  not  a  bit  of  a  philosopher,  Cousin  Mary." 

"Well,  just  tell  over  your  blessings  and  be  thankful  li 
the  old  woman  in  'All  on  the  Irish  Shore,'  who  had  OE 
two  teeth  in  her  head,  but  thanked  God  that  they  met." 

Phoebe  giggled,  and  said  she  "wouldn't  be  mopey  a] 
more,"  and  they  walked  on,  talking  lightly  enough  no 
up  the  road  called  "Turkey-Sag,"  between  dense  thicke 


296  WORLD'S-END 

of  hazel  and  sassafras,  and  old  stone  and  snake-fences, 
now  red  with  Virginia-creeper. 

Mary  gathered  a  great  nosegay  of  Michaelmas  daisies 
and  golden-rod  and  the  pretty  bee-orchid  as  they  went 
along,  and  to  this  Phoebe  added  twigs  of  scarlet  ash-berries 
and  the  vivid  blue  of  wild  lobelia.  "When  they  reached 
Logan's  Peak  they  sat  down  to  wait  for  Owen  on  the  low 
stone  wall  that  ran  along  the  bare,  wind-swept  field 
that  formed  the  "bald  spot"  on  Logan's  shaggy  poll. 
The  valley  spread  below  them  with  its  red  and  yellow 
chessboard  of  fertile  fields  dimmed  by  the  blue  gauze  of 
autumn. 

"Cousin  Mary,"  began  Phoebe  after  a  long  silence,  her 
chin  in  her  hand,  her  eyes  on  the  pale  wood  smoke  rising 
straight  and  calm  from  the  chimneys  of  "World 's-End  in 

its  bower  of  trees.     "I  would  like  to  ask  you  something. 
)> 

"Now,  Phoebe  ..."  began  Mary  warningly. 

"No — no,  I'm  not  going  to  'croak'  any  more,"  said  the 
girl  earnestly.  "I  told  you  I  wouldn't.  It's  only  some 
thing  I  want  to  ask  you,  because  I  know  you'll  tell  me  the 
truth  .  .  .  and,  .  .  .  well,  because  there's  nobody  else  that 
I'd  care  to  ask.  But  I'm  a  little  afraid  to  ask  it,  too. 
May  I?" 

' '  Of  course  you  may,  darling. ' ' 

Phoebe  did  not  speak  at  once;  then  she  said  in  a  little 
rush,  colouring  as  she  did  so : 

"It's  this.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  I've  improved  at  all  in 
the  last  eighteen  months?  ...  I  mean,  do  you  think  I'm 
a  little  .  .  .  wiser  .  .  .  (that  seems  a  big  word  to  use,  but 
yio u  know  what  I  mean).  A  little  ...  a  little  worthier  to 
be  his  wife?" 

Those  hungry,  wistful  eyes  went  straight  to  Mary's 
heart.  She  slipped  along  the  wall,  and  put  her  arm  about 
Phoebe's  shoulders. 

"I  do,  I  do!"  she  said  heartily.  "You've  grown  and 
improved  in  every  way.  I  notice  it  all  the  time.  I  spoke 
to  Owen  of  it  only  yesterday,  and  to  Sally.  ..." 

She  broke  off.    Phoebe 's  face  fell. 

"Please,  please  ..."  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Don't 
talk  to  Cousin  Sally  about  me  .  .  .  please  don't." 

"Why,  dear?" 

"She  .  .  .  she  doesn 't  like  me. " 

"Now,   Phoebe  .  .  .  you   mustn't  mind   Sally's   crusty 


WORLD'S-END 

ways.     There's  ever,  ever  so  much,  that's  good  in  poor 

Sally." 

Phoebe's  face  had  a  sort  of  strained  eagerness.  "I  faiow 
there  is,  Cousin  Mary.  She  can't  help  not  liking  me.  I'm 
not  blaming  her  for  it.  It's  only  that  I'd  rather,  ...  if 
you  don't  mind,  .  .  .  that  you  didn't  talk  to  her  about 
me." 

"She  said  nothing  unkind,  I  assure  you,"  said  Mary, 
but,  as  she  cast  about  in  her  mind  for  something  positively 
kind  that  Sally  had  said,  she  could  not  find  it.  "And 
what  Owen  said,"  she  continued,  "would  have  made  up  to 
you  for  what  a  hundred  Sallies,  all  hating  you,  might  have 
said." 

Phoebe's  face  was  transfigured. 

"Now  she  is  perfectly  beautiful,"  thought  Mary,  with 
a  pang  that  shamed  her,  but  that  she  could  not  help.  "A 
moment  ago  she  merely  looked  fresh  and  vivid.  What  a 
passion  her  love  must  be  to  change  her  like  that  all  in  a 
breath." 

Phoebe  was  fairly  stammering  in  her  shy  eagerness. 
"Could  you  .  .  .  w-would  you  tell  me  something  that  he 
said,  Cousin  Mary?" 

She  was  too  wrapt  in  her  own  emotion  to  notice  that 
Mary  changed  also,  that  she  grew  pale,  and  the  little  dim 
ple  at  her  mouth's  corner  nickered  nervously.  "Of  course 
I'll  tell  you,  goosie,"  she  answered  in  her  soft,  tranquil 
voice.  "He  said  ..." 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes  ..."  cried  Phoebe,  and  caught  Mary's 
hand  in  both  her  own,  holding  it  to  her  breast. 

' '  He  said  that  the  more  he  knew  you,  the  more  he  loved 
you.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  Mary!" 

"He  said  that  he  was  like  the  man  in  the  legend  who 
plucked  a  lovely  flower,  and  then  found  that  its  roots  were 
covered  with  jewels." 

' '  Olv! "    Phoebe  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"He  said  that  you  had  grown  so  close  to  him  that  he 
couldn't  tell  'where  he  ended  and  you  began!'  ...  I'm 
quoting  his  owrn  words.  .  .  .  And  that  when  he  left  you, 
even  for  twenty-four  hours,  he  felt  as  though  he  were 
maimed.  Why,  you  silly  child !  What  is  the  matter?" 

For  tears  were  dripping  through  Phoebe's  fingers.  Her 
whole  body  was  quivering. 

Mary  put  her  arms  close  about  her  and  was  silent.    "Ce 


298  WORLD'S-END 

n'est  pas  la  sagesse,  mais  c'est  magnifique,"  she  para 
phrased  to  herself. 

1  Phoebe  divined  her  thought  with  that  odd,  sure  telepa 
thy  which  visits  us  all  in  certain  moments  of  spiritual  clair 
voyance.  She  looked  up,  and  in  her  tear-wet  face  her 
great,  glowing  eyes  had  a  certain  Sybilline  dignity. 

"I  know  well  what  you  must  feel  when  you  look  at  him 
and  me  together,  Cousin  Mary.  No  one  could  feel  more 
than  I  do  how  little  and  unworthy  I  am  beside  him. 
But  ..."  she  drew  in  a  deep  breath,  looking  out  to  the 
far  horizon,  "but  a  woman  who  worships  a  man  and  who 
.  .  .  who  belongs  to  him  utterly  .  .  .  knows  something  that 
all  the  books  and  all  the  wise  men  of  the  ages  couldn't  tell 
her." 

"I  know,  darling,"  said  Mary  softly,  all  forgetful  now 
of  self,  "you  have  borne  his  child." 

And  she  did  not  wonder  that  Phoebe  hid  her  face  again 
before  the  wonder  and  mystery  and  awful  joy  of  this 
thought. 

They  sat  without  speaking  until  Owen's  voice  hailed 
them  from  the  wood  below.  He  came  up  brandishing  a 
letter,  the  dogs  about  him,  Wizzy  and  Bran  snuffling  among 
the  dead  leaves,  and  Rab  proudly  bearing  the  old  ash  stick 
which  had  belonged  to  Owen 's  father  and  which  he  always 
used  both  in  town  and  country. 

' '  I  thought  it  was  too  good  to  last ! "  he  called.  ' '  I  was 
saying  'Unberufen'  and  knocking  on  wood  all  this  morn 
ing." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Phoebe,  growing  pale. 

"Nothing  to  be  frightened  about,"  he  reassured  her. 
"But  a  sad  bore  when  people  are  as  selfishly  contented  as 
we  World 's-Enders.  It's  just  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Beres- 
ford  to  Sally.  I've  spoken  to  you  often  about  Sylvia  Ber- 
esford,  Phoebe.  She's  a  perfect  dear  .  .  .  but  just  at 
this  moment  we  could  manage  without  her." 

"Is  she  coming  here?" 

' '  Wait.    I  '11  read  you  both  her  letter. ' ' 

And,  seating  himself  on  the  broom-sedge  at  their  feet, 
he  read  aloud  Sylvia  Beresford's  letter  to  Sally.  It 
seemed  that  Lord  Bemyss  had  come  over  to  shoot 
bear  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  bringing  Lady  Prancie  with 
him,  who  in  her  turn  had  persuaded  Dempsy  Torrance  to 
come,  too.  Sylvia  was  to  take  them  to  the  Virginia  Hot 
Springs  next  week,  and  she  said  that,  as  Sally  and  Owen 


WORLD'S-END  299 

had  told  her  so  often  to  ask  herself  to  "World 's-End  when 
ever  she  liked,  .  .  .  she  wondered  now  if  it  would  be  per 
fectly  convenient  to  have  her,  and,  if  they  didn't  mind, 
Dempsy  Torrance  also,  who  was  quite  wild  to  see  Phoebe 
again.  As  for  her  (Sylvia),  they  knew  how  anxious  she 
was  to  know  Phoebe,  of  whom  everyone  said  such  lovely 
things.  Francie,  who  had  developed  rheumatism  on  the 
voyage  over,  was  going  straight  through  to  the  Hot 
Springs,  but,  if  Owen  and  "Mrs.  Owen"  and  Sally  would 
have  them,  she  and  Dempsy  would  stop  off  at  Crewe. 

"So,  you  see,"  said  Owen,  putting  the  letter  back  so 
berly  into  the  envelope,  "Armida's  garden  is  going  to  be 
invaded." 

Phoebe  turned  a  downcast  face  to  Mary. 

"I  told  you  that  I  felt  something  coming,"  she  said. 

Both  Owen  and  Mary  laughed  at  her. 

"If  your  presentiments  aren't  ever  more  darkly  filled 
than  on  this  occasion  you'll  be  a  lucky  girl,"  jeered  Mary 
affectionately. 

But  Phoebe  couldn't  be  smiled  out  of  her  "down"  mood. 
"Of  course  I  want  to  know  Owen's  friend,  and  to  see  dear 
Dempsy  again,"  she  said,  "but  somehow  it  seems  the  end 
of  something.  I  don't  know  why — but  that's  the  way  I 
feel.  I  just  simply  can 't  help  it. ' ' 

He  remembered  this  feeling  of  hers  and  Mary's  ac 
count  of  her  persistent  apprehensiveness  when,  about  a 
week  later  on  the  morning  of  the  day  that  Sylvia  and 
Dempsy  were  to  arrive,  Sally  handed  him  the  following 
telegram : 

"So  very,  very  disappointed.  Poor  Frances  acute  attack  on 
train.  "Will  stop  Washington  with  her  till  better.  Met  Richard  at 
hotel  here.  Told  him  he  simply  must  take  Dempsy  on  to  Crewe. 
They  arrive  train  agreed  on. 

SYLVIA.  ' ' 


XXXVIII 

A  S  carefully  as  Owen  had  schooled  himself  against  this 
•^  moment,  which,  sooner  or  later,  had  inevitably  to 
come,  the  shock  of  it  was  as  violent  as  though  he  had  never 
considered  its  possibility,  and  instantly  there  rose  in  him 
the  thought  of  Phoebe  and  all  the  dread  and  horror  this 
meeting  with  Richard  would  mean  to  her. 


300  WORLD'S-END 

Sally,  having  no  key  to  the  set  expression  of  his  face, 
as  he  stood  silent,  reading  over  this  message  for  the  second 
time,  thought  bitterly: 

"He  never  loved  my  boy.  If  he  knew,  he  would  turn 
him  adrift  without  a  penny."  Then  came  another  thought 
in  a  flash.  "If  he  knew — he  might  kill  him." 

She  sat  down  quickly  on  the  sofa  near  which  they  were 
standing,  and  put  up  her  handkerchief  as  if  to  shield  her 
face  from  the  fire.  For  a  second  or  two  she  thought  that 
she  was  going  to  faint.  But  the  mist  cleared,  and,  though 
her  heart  pounded  dreadfully,  she  kept  her  senses.  It  was 
strange  that  she  had  never  thought  of  this  awful  possibil 
ity  before,  .  .  .  she,  who  knew  better  than  anyone  else 
the  fearful  savagery  of  the  Randolph  temper  when  roused 
to  its  utmost.  That  Owen  never  gave  way  to  anger  as  a 
rule  was  all  the  more  ominous,  and  she  thought  with  a 
sick  shudder,  as  she  had  thought  once  before,  of  that  scrip 
tural  saying:  "Beware  the  wrath  of  the  patient  man." 

As  she  glanced  sideways  at  the  tall  figure  standing  so 
quietly  with  that  yellow  paper  in  its  hands,  .  .  .  the  im 
mense  physical  strength  of  which  she  had  been  so  proud 
in  him  now  seemed  to  her  brutal  and  unnecessary  in  a 
civilised  being.  And  she  began  to  grow  uneasy  over 
Owen's  continued  silence.  What  was  he  thinking?  What 
would  he  say  when  he  did  speak?  Perhaps  he  had  some 
other  grudge  against  Richard?  .  .  .  Perhaps  there  was 
some  secret  reason  that  would  make  him  say  he  didn't  care 
to  have  him  at  World 's-End.  .  .  .  And,  much  as  such  a 
decision  would  have  saved  her  and  Richard  himself,  yet 
the  jealous,  unreasoning  passion  of  maternity  in  her  heart 
made  her  feel  hot  with  anticipatory  anger  at  the  mere 
thought  of  such  a  slight  to  her  son. 

There!    He  was  going  to  speak!  .  .  .    Well?  .  .  . 

"This  will  be  an  unexpected  pleasure  for  you,  Sally. 
Richard  seems  to  have  stopped  a  shorter  time  in  North 
Carolina  than  he  meant  to,"  was  what  he  said.  "I  must 
go  and  tell  Phoebe  to  have  fires  lighted  in  his  rooms. ' ' 

And  he  went  out. 

Sally  sat  looking  after  him.    She  thought : 

"Something  has  occurred  between  them  that  Richard 
hasn  't  told  me  of.  I  believe  he  detests  my  boy. ' ' 

Her  hands  clenched,  and  the  dark  hue  settled  on  her 
cheek-bones.  She  had  little  love  for  Owen  in  her  heart  ,at 
that  moment. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  301 

But  Owen  did  not  go  to  Phoebe.  lie  went  into  his  study 
instead,  and  stood  for  a  long  time  gazing  at  the  fire.  Then 
he  turned  and  began  to  walk  measuredly  up  and  down  the 
room.  Since  the  day  of  little  Diana's  birth  he  had  not 
suffered  as  he  was  suffering  now,  and  it  was  chiefly  the 
thought  of  the  ordeal  that  lay  before  Phoebe  that  wrung 
his  heart  and  nerves.  And  he  was  powerless  now  to  help 
her  as  he  had  been  then.  But  in  this  instance  a  new  dread 
unmanned  him,  the  dread  as  to  how  she  would  be  able 
to  sustain  the  terrible  test  that  lay  directly  before  her.  At 
any  time  its  severity  would  have  been  fearful,  but  now,  at 
such  short  notice,  with  so  little  preparation,  .  .  .  and 
then,  too,  having  to  play  the  part  of  hostess  under  such 
circumstances,  ...  to  have  to  sit  at  the  head  of  that  table 
where  Richard's  mother  had  always  sat  during  his  former 
visits,  ...  to  be  obliged  to  address  him  casually  in  her 
role  of  hostess.  Yet  there  was  no  escape,  and,  even  while 
he  hesitated  to  deal  her  this  cruel  blow,  the  minutes  were 
slipping, — those  few  precious  minutes  which  were  left  her 
for  preparation. 

He  started  to  the  door,  but  stopped  and  thought  again, 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  his  nether  lip  between 
his  teeth,  as  always  in  moments  of  intense  emotion.  Would 
it  not  be  better  for  Mary  to  tell  her  this?  Mary  had 
spoken  to  him  of  Phoebe's  dislike  for  Richard  as  something 
that  she  was  glad  of.  If  the  poor  child  showed  something 
of  her  inner  feeling  at  the  news  of  his  coming,  Mary 
would  attribute  it  to  her  dislike  of  him  and  her  disap 
pointment  at  having  the  sweet  quiet  of  their  life  broken 
into  by  one  distasteful  to  her. 

Yes.  He  would  manage  so  that  Mary  should  be  the  one 
to  tell  her.  And  walking  rapidly,  his  lip  still  between  his 
teeth,  he  went  in  search  of  Mary. 

He  found  her  in  the  dining-room  arranging  a  great 
e-pergne  of  golden-rod  and  Michaelmas  daisies.  The  au 
tumn  wild  flowers  were  always  used  on  the  table  at 
World 's-End  until  their  brilliant  reign  was  over. 

' '  Solomon  would  have  found  this  royal  enough,  wouldn  't 
he?"  she  asked,  looking  with  a  smile  at  her  white  fingers 
all  powdered  with  pollen.  "They're  like  solid  gold  plumes 
from  a  king's  canopy,  and  they  cover  one  with  gold  dust." 

"Mary,"  said  Owen  abruptly,  "Richard  will  be  here 
this  evening." 

"Oh,  Owen!"  she  said,  and  dropped  down  on  the  edge 


302  WORLD'S-END 

of  the  black  mahogany  table  that  reflected  her  white  frock 
and  the  yellow  flowers  as  in  a  dark  tarn. 

"Yes.  I'm  sorry,  too.  We  were  such  a  happy  little 
company.  But  it  can't  be  helped.  And  I'm.  so  rushed" 
(he  looked  at  his  watch)  "that  I  can't  stop  and  break  it 
to  Phoebe  myself.  Downer's  waiting  for  me  now.  It  will 
be  a  trial  to  her  .  .  .  disliking  him  as  she  does.  "Would 
you  mind,  like  the  dear  you  always  are,  .  .  .  just  looking 
Phoebe  up  and  telling  her  to  have  fires  lighted  in  his  old 
rooms?  ..." 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Mary,  and  she  sighed  heavily,  picking 
up  the  scraps  of  leaf  and  bloom  from  the  table.  "How 
did  it  happen,  Owen?  How  is  it  he's  coming  so  suddenly 
like  this?  .  .  ." 

Owen  told  her  of  the  telegram. 

"Well,  of  course  it  can't  be  helped,"  she  said.  "But  it 
is  provoking.  Richard's  atmosphere  is  just  like  coal-dust, 
to  me  at  least.  It  smirches  everything.  Poor  Phoebe! 
How  she  will  hate  it.  She  can't  ever  bear  to  hear  him 
talked  of.  Yes,  I'll  go  at  once." 

And,  gathering  up  her  gardening  gloves  and  shears, 
she  went  off  in  her  turn  to  look  for  Phoebe. 

She  found  her  in  her  bedroom  drying  her  hair,  which 
America  had  just  washed,  before  the  fire.  Kneeling  on 
the  white  fur  hearth-rug,  she  let  the  heavy  lengths 
droop  over  her  face  like  a  splendid  flag  of  golden  tissue, 
carding  it  with  her  fingers  and  shaking  it  lightly  in  the 
warm  glow. 

America  had  left  the  room. 

"Phoebe,"  said  Mary.  "You'll  be  a  dreadful  little  trial 
with  your  presentiments  after  this,  but  I've  something 
more  disagreeable  to  tell  you." 

Phoebe  knelt  quite  motionless.  She  felt  afraid.  "What 
is  it,  Cousin  Mary." 

' '  My  poor  dear,  Lady  Bemyss  is  very  ill  in  Washington, 
and  Sylvia  Beresford  is  stopping  on  with  her.  And  so 
Eichard  is  bringing  Miss  Torrance  on  for  her.  He  comes 
with  her  this  evening." 

Phoebe  knelt  on,  perfectly  motionless,  under  the  veil  of 
her  thick  hair.  She  looked  like  some  image  of  a  girl  turned 
by  a  wicked  witch  into  a  fountain  of  gold. 

"Well,"  said  Mary,  "has  my  bad  news  stricken  you 
with  dumbness?" 

Phoebe's  inner  world  was  breaking  up  about  her  with 


WORLD'S-END  303 

the  crash,  and  impact  of  the  spring  ice  on  some  far  north 
ern  river.  She  did  not  hear  Mary's  words.  She  could  not 
hear  anything  but  that  roar  of  disastrous  wreckage  in  the 
invisible  world  where  she  knelt  in  darkness. 

' '  This  evening  ? ' '  she  said  finally  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes.  On  that  six  o'clock  train  that  comes  from  Wash 
ington,  you  know.  I'm  so  sorry  for  you,  Phoebe.  I  know 
how  you  dislike  him,  and  I  do,  too,  I'm  afraid." 

"Does  Owen  know?" 

' '  Yes.    He  sent  me  to  tell  you. ' ' 

"And  ...  and  Cousin  Sally?" 

"Yes.  The  telegram  was  to  her,  you  know.  My  dear 
child,  do  let  me  help  you  dry  that  mane.  You'll  suffocate 
with  it  over  your  face  like  that."  She  would  have  parted 
it  and  gathered  it  aside  from  Phoebe's  face,  but  the  girl 
stopped  her. 

"No  .  .  .  please,  Cousin  Mary.  I  can't  dry  it  any  way 
but  this.  It's  so  thick." 

She  leaned  forward  and  began  carding  it  and  shaking 
it  again  in  the  firelight. 

"Don't  take  it  so  to  heart,  Puss,"  said  Mary  kindly. 
"After  all,  he  can't  really  harm  you,  you  know.  It  isn't 
as  if  you  were  in  his  power  in  any  way.  Mercy  me !  I 
should  hate  to  be  in  Master  Richard's  power,  I  confess." 

"Where  is  Owen,  Cousin  Mary?" 

"He  went  off  in  a  great  hurry  to  speak  with  Downer." 

' '  Do  you  know  when  he  '11  be  back  ? ' ' 

' '  No,  dear.  He  didn  't  say.  Before  long  I  should  think. 
Why  ?  .  .  .  Do  you  want  to  see  him  ? ' ' 

"No.    I  only  wanted  to  know  where  he  was." 

Under  her  smothering  hair,  in  that  dark  chaos  of  broken 
thoughts,  Phoebe  whispered  "God  .  .  .  God  .  .  .  God 
..."  three  times,  as  poor  Palstaff  did  when  he  was  dy 
ing.  Then  again  she  whispered:  "God  ...  let  her  go 
...  let  me  be  alone." 

As  if  in  answer  to  this  wild,  plain  prayer,  Sally  called 
to  Mary  from  the  hall  below. 

"There!  I  must  go,  dear.  Sally  needs  me.  Shall  I 
send  America?" 

''No,  .  .  .  thank  you.  I'm  going  to  take  a  nap  when 
my  hair's  dry." 

Mary  ran  out,  calling :  ' '  Coming !    Coming ! ' ' 

Swaying,  stumbling  over  the  hem  of  her  dressing  gown 
in  her  breathless  haste,  Phoebe  ran  on  little,  shoeless  feet, 


304  WORLD'S-END 

and  locked  the  door  softly,  .  .  .  leaning  against  it  and  still 
holding  both  hands  about  the  key  after  it  -was  turned  home 
in  the  lock. 

"God  .  .  .  God  .  .  .  God  ..."  she  kept  saying,  cling 
ing  there  to  the  big  key,  with  her  hair  streaming  damply 
about  her.  The  word  was  like  a  sort  of  hard,  fierce  sob 
bing  the  way  it  broke  from  her,  "God  .  .  .  God  .  „  . 
God  .  ." 


XXXIX 


I 


T   seemed   to  Richard  that  no  magpie,  tipsy  on  wine 

stolen  from  the  autumn  presses,  ever  chattered  as  that 
English  girl  chattered  on  the  'drive  from  Crewe  station 
to  World 's-End.  Of  everything  and  everyone,  of  things 
possible  and  impossible  she  piped  and  twittered,  .  .  ask 
ing  questions  which  she  answered  herself  in  the  same 
breath  .  .  .  making  statements  and  counter  statements  in 
one  endless  arabesque  of  crisp,  staccato  verbiage. 

What  a  sweetly  pretty  landscape!  .  .  .  wasn't  it  like 
Devonshire?  No,  it  wasn't  really  like  Devonshire,  but  the 
earth  was  red,  as  in  some  parts  of  Devonshire.  .  .  .  Oh! 
the  quaint,  droll  niggers!  .  .  .  No,  the  big  niggers  were 
not  really  quaint,  but  the  little  niggers  were  too  utterly 
'deevy.'  .  .  .  What  blue  hills!  ...  As  blue  as  her  own 
eyes!  Or  ...  were  they?  .  .  .  (Richard,  rather  rudely 
taciturn,  refused  the  obvious  reply  to  this,  and  with  per 
fect  serenity  she  answered  herself.)  No  .  .  .  her  eyes 
were  a  horrid  porcelain-y  blue,  and  these  were  mysterious 
and  opal-y ;  more,  much  more  like  dear  IIoppo  's  eyes.  Did 
he  know  Hoppo  ?  .  .  .  The  Duchess  of  Wrexborough  ? 

She  had  the  most  beautiful  blue  eyes  in  the  world,  ex 
cept,  of  course,  Phoebe  Randolph  .  .  .  people  at  home  had 
gone  quite  mad  over  Phoebe  Randolph's  eyes  .  .  .  didn't 
he  think  she  had  the  most  wonderful  eyes  he  had  ever  seen  ? 
.  .  .  But  of  course  he  did.  .  .  .  How  in  the  world  had 
he  managed  not  to  fall  in  love  with  her?  Did  he  know 
Vic  Hadringham  ?  Well,  ...  he  knew  who  he  was  at  any 
rate.  Poor  Vic  had  never  got  over  it.  ...  There  was 
Miss  Rothenheim  .  .  .  ten  million  pounds  in  her  own 
right,  they  said,  and  ripping  to  look  at,  ...  but  Vic  sim 
ply  fled  from  her  ever  since  he'd  fallen  so  madly  in  love 


'PHOEBE'S    INNER    WORLD    WAS    BREAKING    UP    ABOUT    HER" 

—Page  50 


WORLD'S-END  305 

with  Phoebe.  .  .  .  And  what  a  sweet  she  was!  .  .  .  And 
she  was  simply  wild  to  see  the  baby.  .  .  .  Hoppo  and 
Francie  Bemyss  both  said  it  was  a  duck  of  a  baby  with 
eyes  like  Phoebe's.  .  .  .  Wasn 't  he  curious  to  see  it  ?  But, 
then,  men  never  cared  for  babies  ...  and  so  forth,  and 
so  forth,  with  scarcely  a  pause  for  breath. 

Dempsy  told  Phoebe  afterward  that  she  had  been  com 
pelled  to  "rattle"  to  prevent  herself  from  feeling  as 
though  she  were  driving  to  a  funeral  with  one  of  the 
mutes. 

"Oh,  my  dear  soul!"  cried  she.  "Sylvia  Beresford  told 
me  that  he  was  a  genius,  and  a  wit  and  a  wonder  .  .  .  but 
all  that  I  can  say  is  that  I  should  think  Poe's  raven  would 
be  a  jolly  companion  compared  with  him." 

Tea  was  waiting  for  them  in  the  rose-room  when  they  ar 
rived.  Sally,  Mary,  Phoebe,  Owen,  Mr.  Nelson,  Miss  Tallia- 
ferro  were  all  assembled  there.  From  a  long  distance,  as 
down  a  narrow  funnel  of  piercing  light,  Richard  saw  a  tall, 
slight  form  in  white  coming  towards  him  ...  a  little  hand 
of  ice  was  put  in  his.  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  that  was  Phoebe 
Nelson's  voice,  saying: 

"How  do  you  do?" 

He  heard  himself  say : 

' '  Thanks.    How  do  you  do  ? " 

His  mother  came  up  to  ask  if  he  would  have  a  cup  of  tea. 
He  went  off  with  her  to  get  it.  Yes.  It  had  happened. 
They  had  met  again  and  spoken.  Now  they  were  sitting 
quietly  in  the  same  room,  and  no  one  seemed  to  have  no 
ticed  anything  unusual.  He  caught  low  tones  of  the  warm, 
full  voice  that  suddenly  made  him  feel  as  though  eighteen 
months  had  shrivelled  into  yesterday.  And  he  kept  glanc 
ing  covertly  towards  her  until  he  heard  his  mother's  whis 
per  at  his  ear : 

"Don't  look  at  her  so  often  .  .  .  get  hold  of  yourself." 

With  a  qualm  of  fear  he  turned  and  began  talking  rap 
idly  to  Sally  of  the  journey,  and  Sylvia  Beresford,  and  the 
shooting  in  North  Carolina. 

And  Phoebe,  smiling  and  speaking  very  fast  and  low  to 
Dempsy  Torrance,  was  saying  in  her  heart : 

"It's  over.  .  .  .  I've  touched  his  hand,  and  I'm  not 
dead  of  shame  and  horror.  Yes,  ...  it's  over  .  .  .  but 
it  has  just  begun,  too.  Can  I  keep  this  up?  My  voice 
sounds  natural.  I'm  not  trembling.  How  can  I  be  like 
this?  It's  because  I'm  desperate.  Yes"  .  .  .it's  despera- 


306  WORLD'S-END 

tion  that  makes  me  able  to  be  like  this.  ...  I'm  fighting 
for  more  than  life.  .  .  .  But  can  I  keep  it  up?  Can  I? 
.  .  .  Can  I?" 

All  the  time  that  she  was  talking  with  Dempsy,  speaking 
so  quick  and  low,  in  her  heart  she  was  saying  this,  over  and 
over,  over  and  over. 

And  she  looked  well,  though  a  little  over-excited.  Her 
eyes,  lit  by  that  inner  fire  of  desperation,  blazed  almost  as 
black  as  Sally's  in  her  small  face.  As  on  that  dreadful 
day  when  she  had  received  Richard's  first  long  letter,  .  .  . 
she  had  gone  for  help  to  her  little  box  of  nail-rouge,  and 
the  touch  of  false  carmine  on  her  smooth  young  skin  looked 
only  like  the  natural  flush  of  autumn  in  the  candle  and 
firelight. 

As  for  Owen,  the  sight  of  that  fine,  lonely  courage  went 
to  the  quick.  It  seemed  to  him  the  most  moving,  stirring 
thing  that  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Tears  scorched  his  eyes, 
dried  quickly  by  the  smouldering  anger  in  his  breast.  And 
this  anger  burnt  all  the  more  fiercely  under  its  crust  of 
self-control,  because  of  his  helplessness  to  help  her.  "Yes, 
life  treats  us  like  toys,"  he  thought.  "Softly,  calmly  it 
takes  us,  crushes  us,  .  .  .  sets  us  here  and  there  like  mani 
kins.  The  three  of  us  in  this  room  together  .  .  .  what  an 
outrage  of  all  decency,  ...  of  all  humanity !  Yet  we  are 
without  resource,  .  .  .  quite  powerless  to  help  ourselves  or 
one  another.  A  cur  snapped  at  a  star,  and  it  fell  and  he 
slavered  it  in  his  jaws.  And  no  stick  broke  the  cur's  back 
— no  god  set  the  star  again  in  its  place.  My  star  .  .  . 
shining  out  of  the  dust  .  .  .  brave  .  .  .  brave  .  .  .  braver 
than  battalions  of  picked  men.  .  .  .  What  men  could  act 
as  she  is  acting  now  ?  Not  one !  .  .  .  He !  .  .  .  white  .  .  . 
scared  .  .  .  babbling  like  a  sick  fool  in  a  fever.  .  .  .  And 
Sally  .  .  .  scared  too  .  .  .  scared  to  death  .  .  .  poor 
wretch !  .  .  .  But  my  little  love  .  .  .  my  little  warrior 
.  .  .  bone  of  my  bone,  flesh  of  my  flesh.  ..." 

' '  Good  Lud,  Mr.  Randolph ! ' '  exclaimed  Aunt  Charlotte, 
by  whom  he  was  seated.  "What  a  fierce  face  you've  put 
on,  to  be  sure !  .  .  .  I  vow  you  alarm  me !  'Tis  nothing 
less  than  a  revolution  you're  pondering,  I'll  lay  me  last 
farthing. ' ' 

This  voice  from  the  thirties  brought  him  back  with  a 
jerk. 

"Dear  lady,  I  was  thinking  of  nothing  more  sinister 
than  whether  Jonathan  had  put  the  claret  too  near  the 


WOKLD'S-END  807 

fire,"  lie  assured  her.  He  knew  her  old-fashioned  interest 
in  fine  wines  and  the  care  of  them. 

She  responded  at  once. 

"Ah,  to  hear  a  gentleman  solicitous  ahout  a  rare  vintage 
takes  me  back  .  .  .  takes  me  back  ..."  she  said  with  real 
feeling.  "I  remember  the  days  when  a  slave  would  be 
trounced  for  jolting  a  bottle  of  port.  You're  of  the  old 
school,  I  see,  Mr.  Randolph.  My  great-niece  is  very  fortu 
nate.  My  respected  father  used  to  say,  'A  man  who  knows 
how  to  care  for  his  wines  will  know  how  to  care  for  his 
wife. '  He  was  at  vast  pains  to  cultivate  my  taste  in  wines 
...  at  vast  pains.  To  this  day  I  prefer  a  rich  bo-kay  of 
claret  to  posies  from  a  glass  house.  Mortimer  Smith  had 
a  line  in  a  poem  he  writ  me,  touching  on  my  knowledge  of 
wines.  .  .  . 

' '  Falernian,   Falernian, 
Great  Horace  sang,  but  was  a  man; 
Fair  Charlotte,  though  a  maiden  chaste, 
Hath  e'en  as  chasto   (for  wine)   a  taste." 

Owen  listened  with  apparent  grave  absorption,  which  Aunt 
Charlotte  took  for  deferential  interest  and  which  delighted 
her. 

And  now  the  time  had  come  when  he  must  join  his  sister 
and  her  son  or  seem  peculiar.  He  had  had  no  word  with 
Richard  since  his  arrival,  and  he  felt  Sally's  eyes  on  him 
from  time  to  time.  It  was  one  of  the  things  that  had  to  be 
gone  through  with  on  this  ironical  evening.  He  excused 
himself  to  the  old  lady  and  went  over  to  where  Sally  and 
Richard  were  seated  a  little  apart  near  one  of  the  win 
dows.  He  noticed  Sally  straighten  as  she  saw  him  coming, 
and  Richard  jerk  his  chin  sideways  with  a  nervous  trick 
that  he  had  inherited  from  his  father. 

"Quite  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  you,  Richard,"  he 
said,  taking  the  chair  next  Sally.  "The  East  didn't  brown 
you  much.  Was  it  up  to  your  expectations?" 

Like  poor  Phoebe,  he  wondered  at  the  naturalness  of  his 
own  voice.  Richard  was  not  so  successful.  He  stammered 
"lightly,  and  changed  colour.  Then  a  sort  of  cold  reck 
lessness  took  hold  of  him,  and  he  slid  easily  into  his  usual 
manner. 

"The  best  of  the  East  is  in  the  dawn,"  he  said.  "I 
seemed  to  be  progressing  through  a  hall  of  post-cards.  But 
China  is  less  disappointing  when  one  knows  how  to  avoid 


308  WORLD'S-END 

the  obvious.  In  an  inland  temple  I  found  the  most  as 
tounding  music." 

"Yes.  I've  heard  that  their  music  is  astounding,"  said 
Owen  drily.  ' '  You  really  mean  that  it  astounded  you  with 
its  beauty?" 

Sally  was  watching  Richard  avidly,  much  as  a  mother 
mongoose  might  watch  its  youngling's  first  encounter  with 
a  cobra.  Richard  rose  fully  to  the  occasion.  His  manner 
was  perfectly  assured  now,  and  his  voice  civilly  if  aloofly 
respectful. 

"I  realise  that  it  must  sound  forced  to  you,  sir,  when 
I  confess  that  I  did  find  it  beautiful.  There  are  certain 
delicate  dissonances  which  appeal  to  me  in  every  art,  .  .  . 
and  the  music  of  China  is  as  exquisitely  inharmonious  as 
a  fuchsia.  It  combines  red  and  violet  tones  in  much  the 
same  manner.  Of  course  it  takes  a  special  ear  to  relish  it. 
My  Chinese  music  teacher  told  me  that  I  heard  like  an 
Oriental.  It's  odd,  I  admit." 

"Perhaps  we  have  a  Chinaman  in  our  ancestry  some 
where,"  said  Owen.  "You  might  ferret  him  out, 
Sally." 

He  was  thinking : 

' '  Those  lips  kissed  her.    Those  arms  held  her.  .  .  . " 

Suddenly  rushed  over  him  the  memory  of  that  poor 
young  girl  of  the  nobility  who,  during  the  Reign  of  Ter 
ror,  was  forced  to  drink  a  goblet  of  human  blood  from  the 
gutter  in  order  to  save  her  father's  life.  This  was  to 
Owen  like  swallowing  that  unspeakable  draught.  Yet  he 
heard  his  own  voice  continuing  calmly,  naturally : 

"Shall  you  stop  long  with  us  this  time?  The  Warwick 
hounds  are  running  well,  I  hear.  The  meets  have  begun 
earlier  this  season.  You  might  put  in  some  good  days. ' ' 

"Thanks.  It's  very  kind  of  you,  Uncle  Owen,"  said 
Richard.  "But  I  shall  have  to  go  on  day  after  tomorrow. 
I  was  on  my  way  to  some  friends  near  Baltimore  when  I 
met  Mrs.  Beresford.  They're  expecting  rne,  you  see.  I 
was  meaning  to  run  down  for  a  week  or  two  in  November 
if  you  could  put  me  up  then. ' ' 

' '  Of  course.    "What  time  in  November  ? ' ' 

"Somewhere  about  the  end,  I  think." 

As  if  in  spite  of  himself,  quite  automatically,  Richard 
had  invented  this  lie  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  Per 
haps  his  subconscious  monitor  had  told  him  that  already 
it  looked  strange  that  he  had  fixed  no  time  for  visiting  his 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  300 

uncle  after  so  long  a  separation,  especially  since  Owen  had 
been  married  during  the  interval. 

With  ready  wit  Sally  abetted  him. 

"Yes,  it  was  the  end  of  November  that  you  mentioned  in 
your  last  letter.  It  came  yesterday.  I  forgot  to  tell  you, 
Owen." 

"Well,  we  shall  expect  you  in  November,  then.  You'll 
be  able  to  get  some  good  shooting.  The  quail  are  thick  at 
World 's-End  this  year." 

Phoebe,  listening  to  Dempsy's  headless  and  tailless  chat 
ter,  was  aware  of  those  two  speaking  together  in  the  finest 
nerves  of  her  being.  The  lightness  of  Phoebe's  brighter 
hours  was  always  offset  by  other  hours  heavy  with  bitter 
ness, — but  never  since  her  marriage  had  the  horror  of 
what  she  had  suffered  and  what  she  had  done  suffo 
cated  her  as  now.  So  dreadful  was  the  confusion  of  all 
her  ideas  that  she  felt  like  starting  up  from  her  place  and 
hurrying  breathlessly  after  death,  like  a  starving  beggar 
after  one  who  carries  loaves.  To  die  ...  to  die  quickly, 
that  was  the  only  thing  that  could  cleanse  her  of  this 
shame.  Then  the  next  instant  came  one  of  those  sharp 
recoils  with  which  her  vivid,  vibrant  nature  was  set  as  with 
violent  springs.  "No  .  .  ."  she  thought,  "no  ...  I 
will  get  above  it.  I  will  grind  it  under  my  feet.  I  am 
worth  while  in  spite  of  him.  My  love  has  washed  me  clean. 
I  am  not  that  girl.  I  am  made  new  by  my  love  and  Owen's 
love.  And  I  am  going  to  tell  Owen.  ...  I  am  going  to 
tell  him.  ...  I  will  be  strong.  I  will  be  brave.  Even  if 
it  is  the  end  of  my  happiness — of  everything.  I  will 
take  my  life  and  put  it  high  .  .  .  high  .  „  .  out  of  their 
reach." 

But  then  she  thought  of  the  child  upstairs  in  its  crib, 
and  she  put  up  her  hand  over  her  eyes  an  instant.  A  wild 
thought  came  to  her  that  the  scream,  stifled  on  her  lips, 
must  rise  changed  into  a  terrible  look  from  her  eyes. 

Dempsy's  voice  came  clear  and  carrying: 

"Oh,  I  say,  Phoebe!  I'd  forgot!  The  baby!  ...  I 
must  see  that  baby  before  I  dress  for  dinner!  Can't  I  see 
her  now?" 

"Yes.  Come,"  said  Phoebe,  rising.  "She'll  be  asleep, 
but  we  can  peep  at  her." 

The  two  young  women  went  out  together. 

"It's  about  time  that  we  changed,  too,"  said  Owen, 
glancing  at  the  clock.  "Patton  and  Mr.  Nelson,  the  clergy- 


310  WORLD'S-END 

man  who  married  us,  are  coming  to  dinner.  You  have  your 
old  rooms,  Richard." 

' '  Thanks,  Uncle  Owen.    Mother  told  me. ' ' 

"Then  I  leave  him  to  you,  Sally." 

He  also  went  out. 

' '  Mother, ' '  said  Richard  in  a  low  voice  of  intense  bitter 
ness,  as  Owen  closed  the  door,  ' '  did  I  look  the  knave  I  felt, 
or  did  I  play  the  hypocrite  tolerably  ? ' ' 

Sally  caught  at  his  long,  nervously  twitching  hand  as  it 
rested  on  the  chair  between  them. 

"No,  no,  my  boy.  You  behaved  wonderfully  .  .  .  really 
wonderfully,  Richard.  I  was  cold  with  fear  at  first — but 
you  acted  exactly  as  you  should  have  done. ' ' 

"And  I  was  cold  with  disgust,"  said  he  sombrely. 
"Dante  never  invented  a  worse  situation  for  his  'In 
ferno.'  :  His  voice  took  a  fierce,  whispering  note.  "It's 
hellish,  mother." 

Sally  rose. 

"When  you're  dressed,"  she  said,  "come  to  my  room. 
We  can 't  talk  here.  Mary  is  looking  at  us  now. ' ' 

When  Richard  knocked  at  her  bedroom  door  Sally  was 
seated  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  fully  dressed,  having 
dismissed  Mirabel.  Another  chair  was  drawn  up,  ready 
for  Richard,  He  sank  into  it  moodily,  crossing  his  legs 
and  moving  his  foot  up  and  down  in  its  narrow  pump 
as  a  nervous  woman  does.  He  was  extremely  pale,  and  his 
nostrils  looked  pinched. 

"My  poor,  poor  boy,"  said  his  mother,  leaning  towards 
him  and  putting  her  hand  over  his  as  she  had  done  in  the 
drawing-room.  "Tell  me  how  this  dreadful  thing  hap 
pened.  Was  there  no  escape?" 

Richard's  fingers  jerked  under  hers.  He  did  not  look 
at  her,  but  continued  gazing  sombrely  into  the  fire. 

"You  know  Mrs.  Beresford,  mother.  Besides,  illness  al 
ways  gives  rise  to  a  low  tyranny.  What  could  I  say?  I 
was  like  a  rat  with  a  clever  terrier.  She  had  me  by  the 
nape." 

"Couldn't  you  have  invented  something  .  .  .  something 
vital?" 

He  made  a  movement  of  impatience,  and  drew  away  his 
hand,  pretending  to  look  for  his  cigarette  case. 

"...  I  must  have  left  it  in  my  other  coat.  .  .  .  What 
could  I  have  invented,  my  dear  mother?  Business?  .  .  . 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  311 

She  knows  I  have  no  business.  My  art?  Art  isn't  sup 
posed  to  have  claims  over  sickness.  I  couldn't  very  well 
pretend  a  sudden  illness  for  myself." 

"And  it  was  as  serious  as  that?  Is  Lady  Bemyss 
in  danger?  It  seem  to  me  very  odd  indeed  that  this  Eng 
lish  girl  didn't  stay  with  Sylvia  if  it's  as  bad  as  that.  The 
English  are  certainly  very  queer." 

"Oh,  the  girl's  a  shallow  little  jade.  She  hasn't  an  ounce 
of  real  feeling  in  her  whole  composition.  But  the  other 
isn't  in  any  immediate  danger,  only  in  great  pain.  There 
were  trained  nurses  of  course.  Mrs.  Beresford's  chief 
anxiety  seemed  to  be  that  this  rattle-pate  girl  shouldn't 
have  her  American  visit  spoiled." 

Sally  frowned. 

' '  Sylvia  can  never  see  an  inch  beyond  what  obsesses  her 
at  the  moment.  She  has  the  highest  hand  about  carrying 
out  her  own  wishes.  But,  after  all.  ..." 

She  looked  yearningly  at  his  set  profile  so  determinedly 
turned  to  her. 

"After  all,  Richard,  .  .  .  though  the  suddenness  of  it 
was  a  dreadful  shock  .  .  .  it  had  to  come  .  .  .  sometime." 

A  short  sound  escaped  him,  like  the  beginning  of  a 
laugh. 

"What  puppets  we  all  are!"  he  said. 

"Yes,  ...  it  had  to  come,"  Sally  repeated  firmly. 
"We've  gone  over  that  often  enough,  God  knows." 

Richard  turned  and  looked  at  her  for  the  first  time.  "Do 
you  know,"  he  said  slowly,  "I've  sometimes  thought  the 
game  isn  't  worth  the  candle,  mother. ' ' 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  much  startled. 

' '  Just  this, ' '  he  said  shortly.  ' '  There  are  quite  frequent 
moments  when  I  think  that  I'd  prefer  to  cut  the  whole 
thing-  and  be  a  pauper  with  a  free  mind.  There's  some 
thing  villainously  low  in  cringing  this  way  for  .  .  .  for 
.  .  . "  he  gulped,  ' '  for  money, ' '  he  ended  harshly. 

His  mother  gripped  his  arm  in  her  thin  fingers.  "Don't 
talk  like  a  madman,  Richard.  Prudence  is  not  low.  ..." 

"In  this  case  it  is,"  he  said  sullenly. 

"No,  Richard.  I  deny  that.  ...  I  deny  it  absolutely," 
she  said,  her  face  beginning  to  burn.  "Besides,  that  isn't 
the  only  consideration.  .  .  .  Any  marked  change  in  your 
manner  to  Owen,  .  .  .  any  sudden  break  with  him  would 
be  bound  to  raise  suspicion.  Everyone  would  talk  .  .  . 
everyone  would  question  .  .  .  Owen  himself  .  .  .  Richard ! 


312  WORLD'S-END 

— If  by  your  own  imprudence  ...  by  some  chance  ris 
ing  from  it  ...  if  you  should  start  his  mind  to  working 
by  some  mad  impulse  of  self-will  .  .  .  yes,  of  selfishness 
...  ( ...  it  would  be  cruelly,  cruelly  selfish  towards  me ! ) 
.  .  .  Yes  ...  if  you  did  that  .  .  .  dreadful  things  might 
happen,  Eichard,  horrible,  unspeakable  things.  .  .  .  Only 
today  I  was  thinking  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  yes  ...  I  was  think 
ing  this  morning  .  .  .  when  I  watched  him  reading  that 
wire.  .  .  .  His  face  was  so  hard,  so  cruel.  .  .  .  He  doesn  't 
like  you  even  now,  Richard.  He's  never  liked  you.  Then 
think  .  .  .  think  what  it  would  be  if  he  ever  .  .  .  found 
out.  Richard  ..."  She  had  his  arm  in  both  hands  now. 
"He  might  kill  you  .  .  .  before  he  realised  what  he  was 
doing,  he  might  kill  you.  .  .  .-" 

Richard  grew  alarmed  at  the  distorted  expression  on  her 
face  so  darkly  flushed.  "Dear  mother  .  .  .  don't  work 
yourself  up,"  he  said,  taking  one  of  her  hands  from  his 
arm  and  kissing  it.  "Men  don't  kill  one  another  nowadays 
...  at  least  not  men  like  my  uncle  ..." 

"You  don't  know  the  Randolph  temper  as  I  do.  ... 
It  runs  underground  for  years,  then  breaks  out  sud 
denly — wrecks  everything.  Why,  here,  in  this  very  house 
— your  great-grandfather  killed  a  man  with  his  bare 
hands.  It  was  hushed  up  .  .  .  but  everyone  knew  .  .  .  it 's 
local  history  .  .  .  Richard  .  .  .  promise  me  .  .  .  promise 
me  on  your  honour  that  you  won't  do  any  rash,  mad 
thing!"' 

Her  face  was  working  so  painfully,  her  eyes  so  burning, 
that  he  felt  more  and  more  alarmed.  "Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  . 
I  promise,"  he  said,  putting  his  arm  about  her  shoulders. 
"Please  quiet  yourself,  mother.  I  will  do  just  as  you 
like." 

Sally  put  her  scorching  cheek  to  his  and  held  him  a  mo 
ment  in  silence.  Then  she  said: 

"I  know  how  bitterly  hard  it  all  is  ...  but  it's  better 
to  get  the  first  shock  over.  It  will  never  be  as  hard  as  this 
again." 

"Again!"  he  echoed  her  morosely,  swinging  back  in 
spite  of  his  anxiety  on  her  account  to  his  former  mood.  ' '  I 
was  thinking  just  now  that  I'd  rather  be  naturalised  in 
some  far  country  than  have  to  go  through  this  a  second 
time.  But  women  haven't  the  same  feelings  as  men  about 
such  things.  Their  nerves  aren't  like  ours.  Look  at  you, 
mother,  ...  ill  as  you  are,  when  it  comes  to  facing  this 


WORLD'S-END  313 

damnable  situation,  .  .  .  perfectly  calm,  perfectly  col 
lected.  .  .  .  Look  at  her.  ..." 

Sally  gave  him  a  quick,  sidelong  glance. 

"Do  you  find  her  changed,  Richard?" 

"I  find  her  devilishly  self-possessed — quite  the  queen. 
She  touched  my  hand  as  if  it  had  been  a  toad,  and  looked 
between  my  eyebrows." 

Sally's  lips  curled  with  a  cruel  sneer. 

"You  could  scarcely  expect  her  to  look  you  in  the  eyes." 

He  went  on,  not  heeding  her,  his  look  fixed  on  his  nerv 
ously  jerking  foot. 

"Why,  she  wasn't  even  pale.  She  had  such  a  colour  that 
she  looked  painted." 

Sally's  lips  curled  again. 

"I  dare  say  she  was." 

"Nonsense!    She's  too  simple." 

It  was  her  turn  to  echo  him. 

"  'Simple!'  You  don't  know  her.  'Simple!'  Why, 
she's  as  cunning  as  a  monkey.  She  twists  them  all  around 
her  little  finger,  Owen,  Mary,  her  father,  the  servants.  .  .  . 
I  am  the  only  rebel  in  her  little  kingdom.  And  even  I 
don't  dare  rebel  openly."  Her  face  had  the  expression  of 
a  snarl  in  the  changeful  firelight. 

' '  Isn  't  she  nice  to  you,  mother  ? ' ' 

"As  nice  as  I'll  allow  her  to  be." 

"But  wouldn't  it  be  wise  ...   ?" 

"I'm  as  sick  of  wisdom  as  you  are  sometimes!"  she  ex 
claimed  in  a  choked  voice. 

They  sat  for  some  minutes  without  speaking. 

Presently  Sally  said  in  an  entirely  different  voice, — a 
voice  so  changed  that  he  looked  up,  startled : 

"Richard.  ..." 

"Yes,  mother?" 

"I  asked  you  to  come  to  my  room  for  a  special  reason. 
I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about — the  child. ' ' 

That  dark  flush,  so  like  the  flush  fhat  came  to  his 
mother's  face  in  moments  of  sharp  emotion,  came  now  to 
his. 

"Well  .  .  ."he  said  very  low. 

"The  child  is  ...  is  lovely,  Richard." 

"Is  it  likelier  .  .  .   ?" 

"It's  like  her,  most  people  think, — but  there's  something. 
.  .  .  At  times  it  is  so  like  you  when  you  were  a  baby,  Rich 
ard,  that  it  makes  my  heart  stand  still. ' ' 


314  WORLD'S-END 

"You  .  .  .  you  are  ...  fond  of  it?" 

"I'm  human,"  said  his  mother  in  a  hard  voice;  "after 
all,  it's  my  grandchild." 

"For  God's  sake,  mother!"  cried  Richard,  and  got  to  his 
feet.  His  hands  opened  and  shut  nervously  .  .  .  the  palms 
were  wet. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Sally  quietly;  "this  at  least  is  some 
thing  that  has  to  be  discussed." 

He  sat  down  moodily,  with  the  conventional  obedience 
which  he  always  gave  her,  and  which  he  very  rightly  con 
sidered  a  part  of  perfect  manners. 

"I  must  say  I  can't  see  why  we  should  discuss  it,"  he 
said  thickly. 

Sally  watched  him  from  narrowed  eyes. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  at  last,  "perhaps  you,  too,  may 
find  that  you  are  human." 

""What  can  you  mean,  mother?" 

"Only  that  you  must  be  doubly  on  your  guard  about 
this  child.  Oh,  I  know!  You  men  have  very  lofty  notions 
about  the  insignificance  and  absurdity  of  babies. ' '  She  put 
her  hot,  dry  hand  again  upon  his  knee.  "Wait,  .  .  .  wait 
until  some  chance  lets  you  feel  the  touch  of  your  own  child 
.  .  .  the  little  clinging  hands  .  .  .  the  little  lips.  .  .  . 
"Wait  till  the  flesh  of  your  own  child  touches  you,  Richard ! 
.  .  .  Then  you  '11  thank  me  for  having  warned  you. ' ' 

This  time  he  sprang  up  and  began  pacing  the  warm 
room  with  its  sweetly  acrid  odour  from  the  vervaine  that 
Sally  always  used  in  her  bath. 

"I  can't  conceive  of  such  a  thing  .  .  ."he  muttered. 

She  had  the  wise-woman's  just-sketched  smile  at  her 
mouth's  corner. 

"Only  be  on  your  guard, — that  is  all  I  ask,"  she  said. 

Richard  went  to  one  of  the  windows,  and  stood  looking 
out  into  the  night.  The  shutters  had  not  yet  been  closed, 
and  the  reflection  of  the  wood  fire  in  the  panes  of  glass 
seemed  burning  among  the  branches  of  the  tulip  tree  out 
side.  He  stared  at  it,  knitting  his  straight  black  brows,  so 
like  his  mother's,  and  thrusting  out  his  lower  lip.  Then  he 
said,  without  turning: 

' '  Do  you  think  they  're  happy,  mother  ? ' ' 

"I  think  Owen  is  ...  for  the  present.  He  lives  in  a 
fool 's  paradise.  He  is  besotted  about  her ! ' ' 

"And  .  .  .  she  .  .  .   ?    Do  you  think  she's  happy?" 

"How  could  she  be?  ...    With  me  here  .  .  .  knowing. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  315 

TYith  you  .  .  .  knowing.  She's  a  clever  little  actress.  But 
a  woman, — even  a  light  woman, — doesn't  forget  her  first 
love — her  child's  father  ...  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye." 

Richard  gave  an  exclamation  that  was  like  a  groan. 

"Don't,  mother.    Don't  .  .  .  don't  .  .  ."he  said. 

"Very  well.  .  .  .  But  be  on  your  guard.  ...  Be  on 
your  guard  every  second,  Richard." 

Owen  tapped  at  Phoebe's  door.  There  was  an  instant's 
pause;  then  her  voice,  very  low,  said  close  to  the  crack: 

"I  can't  let  you  in  now,  dear.  But  I'm  almost  dressed. 
I  '11  be  ready  before  the  others. ' ' 

"Poor  child!"  he  thought.  "Poor  little,  courageous 
child.  She  can't  even  spare  a  moment  from  her  desperate 
search  for  more  courage."  Aloud  he  said:  "Never  mind, 
sweetheart.  I  only  wanted  to  know  what  you  are  going  to 
wear." 

"It's  a  new  gown."  A  faint  little  laugh  came  through 
the  crack  of  the  door.  "You've  never  seen  it.  Black  and 
silver.  I  want  to  look  very  dignified  and  'matronly.'  : 

He  laughed,  too,  just  to  encourage  her  in  her  brave  play 
acting,  and  called  back: 

' '  -Jay  it  add  ten  summers  to  your  ripe  age !  .  .  .  I  '11 
go  down  and  wait  for  you.  Patton  and  the  rector  have 
come." 

"Yes,  please,  dear,"  came  the  low  voice.  "I'll  follow 
you  in  just  a  minute." 

She  heard  his  steps  crossing  the  room,  and  then  the 
sound  of  a  closing  door.  She  slipped  down  on  her  knees 
where  she  had  been  standing,  and  lifted  her  locked  hands 
high  towards  the  white  ceiling. 

"0  God.  .  .  .  Someone  .  .  .  someone  .  .  .  help  me 
.  .  .  help  me,"  she  whispered,  choking. 

Then  she  got  to  her  feet  with  a  bound,  her  chin  high. 

"I'll  help  myself!"  she  said  back  of  her  little  teeth. 
"I'll  help  myself  .  .  .  then  God  will  have  to  help  me." 

She  finished  her  hair,  which  she  always  did  herself,  then 
took  up  the  little  hand  mirror,  looking  at  her  reflection 
carefully,  full-face,  three-quarters,  profile.  Yes  .  .  .  that 
would  do.  She  picked  up  a  bit  of  soft  lint,  and  wiped 
some  of  the  carmine  from  her  cheeks.  Excitement  and 
pain  had  sent  her  oven  blood  into  them.  Then  she  rang 
for  America.  The  black  gauze  gown  embroidered  with 
silver  was  a  little  too  elaborate  perhaps  for  a  small  country 


316  WORLD'S-END 

dinner,  but  it  added  the  touch  of  stateliness  that  she  de 
sired,  seeming  to  make  her  an  inch  or  two  taller. 

America  set  the  twist  of  black  gauze  upon  her  hair,  with 
its  knots  of  silver  poppies  just  hiding  the  small  ears, — 
and  stepped  back,  elated. 

' '  Dat  's  a  sight  prettier  nor  any  crown  in  dee  worl ' ! " 
she  said.  "I  don't  keer  if  'twas  dee  Queen  of  England's 
an'  had  fifty  p'ints  to  it!  But  lawsie!  Miss  Phoebe,  you 
does  look  sot  an'  settled  in  dat  black  dress.  It  sho'  do 
make  you  look  scornful. ' '  . 

"I  want  to  look  'scornful,'  Rikky,"  said  her  mistress 
ivith  a  faint  little  smile. 

"Well,  you  looks  it,  all  right,"  returned  America. 
"  'Tech-me-not  an'  you  won't  git  stung'  is  yo'  name  to 
night,  Miss  Phoebe.  An'  pret-tfee/  My  Gawd!  .  .  .  You 
looks  jes'  like  a  wax  doll  in  a  show-case." 

" Thank  you,  Rikky.  You're  a  dear  thing.  I  love  you," 
said  Phoebe.  She  took  up  her  fan  and  handkerchief,  and, 
bending  forward,  kissed  the  brown  cheek  before  leaving  the 
room. 

XL 

C*  HARLES  PATTON  was  a  rather  remarkable  man.  At 
^-'  thirty  he  had  held  the  professorship  of  anatomy  in  one 
of  the  first  universities  of  America.  At  thirty-four  he  had 
been  asked  by  the  faculty  to  resign,  owing  to  his  habit  of 
deep,  steady  drinking.  At  forty,  from  a  wretched,  sham 
bling  ghost  of  manhood,  he  had  suddenly  taken  himself  in 
hand,  and  grimly,  as  though  harnessed  with  despair,  had 
pulled  the  wreck  of  his  life  and  his  fortune  from  the  mire. 
Now  at  fifty-three  he  was  a  man  beloved  and  respected  by 
the  whole  community  where  he  lived  and  practised.  He 
had  received  sound  offers  of  advancement,  one  even  from 
the  very  university  which  he  had  left  some  seventeen 
years  ago  in  disgrace,  but  he  refused  them  all.  Owen,  who 
knew  him  more  intimately  than  any  other  man,  was  aware 
of  his  reason  for  conduct  that  puzzled  most  people  and 
even  angered  them.  They  considered  it  a  reckless  in 
dulgence  in  false  pride  that  caused  a  man  of  such  ability 
and  brilliant  parts  as  Charles  Patton  to  remain  "rotting 
away,"  as  they  expressed  it,  in  a  country  neighbourhood 
when  he  might  have  been  winning  fame  and  fortune  in  one 
of  the  big  centres  of  civilisation. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  317 

Owen  honoured  and  loved  him  more  for  these  reasons, 
which  it  seemed  to  him  could  have  been  divined  by  others 
with  the  exertion  of  only  a  slight  amount  of  imagination. 
But  "imagination,"  even  in  slight  amounts,  is  a  rarer 
quality  than  the  uncommon  "common"  sense,  which 
everyone  is  supposed  to  be  endowed  with  in  a  greater  or 
lesser  degree. 

Patton's  explanation  of  his  conduct  was  simple  in  the 
extreme.  He  was  in  all  things  rather  a  simple  man,  built 
on  broad,  noble  lines.  The  architecture  of  his  spirit  was 
rather  that  of  the  temple  of  Phsestum  than  the  more  com 
plex  and  ornate  Gothic.  As  Marc  Antony  described  him 
self,  he  was  "a  plain,  blunt  man — he  only  spoke  right  on" 
and  acted  as  he  spoke.  .  .  . 

"You  see,"  he  had  said  to  Owen,  "  'know  thyself  was 
supposed  to  be  the  wisest  advice  the  ancients  had  to  give — 
and  for  me  it  holds  good  in  these  days  ...  if  I  don't 
'know  myself  in  toto,  at  least  I  know  my  chief  weakness, 
and,  as  the  chap  said,  'my  weakness  is  mighty  strong.'  I 
haven't  climbed  out  of  hell  on  my  hands  and  knees,  so  to 
speak,  to  risk  dropping  back  there  by  some  silly  chance. 
If  I  lived  at  a  university  or  in  a  big  town  there  would  be 
convivial  souls  who  would  be  saying  constantly:  'Have  a 
drink,  Patton. '  And,  knowing  Charles  Patton  as  I  do,  I 
know  very  well,  also,  that  sooner  or  later — when  the  devil 
was  by,  or  his  good  angel  napping,  'a  drink'  he  would 
have.  And  that  one  'drink'  would  beget  forty  .  .  .  and 
there  wrould  I  be  'with  all  hell  at  my  hurdies, '  as  an  old 
Scotsman  I  know  puts  it.  So  that  is  why,  dear  old  man,  I 
prefer  to  rot  away  in  the  country  soberly,  discreetly, 
reverently  and  in  the  '  fear  of  God. '  The  '  fear  of  God '  let 
me  tell  you,  by  the  way,"  he  wound  up,  with  the  rare 
sirJie  that  lit  his  saturnine  face  to  astonishing  sweetness; 

'the  fear  of  God'  is  small  potatoes  to  'the  fear  of  wrhis- 
key'  in  those  that  have  once  felt  it." 

And  so  it  made  Owen  very  impatient  and  irritated  when 
people  sometimes  commented  to  him  on  the  vain  obstinacy 
of  Charles  Patton's  course  in  life,  and  implored  him  to 
"use  his  influence  with  him"  and  induce  him  to  go  forth 
into  the  world  and  gather  up  some  of  the  ducats  and 
laurels  that  were  supposed  to  be  awaiting  him  there  in 
heaps. 

In  appearance  he  was  striking,  tall  and  gaunt,  with  im 
mense  bones  that  made  his  strong,  flat  wrists  resemble  the 


WORLD'S-END 

lower  joint  of  a  thoroughbred's  fore-leg.  His  face,  sickly 
and  weather-beaten  in  hue,  was  of  a  square  darkness,  and 
the  great,  dark,  lugubrious  eyes  under  the  fine,  bony  fore 
head  with  its  hollow  temples  recalled  the  later  portraits  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe.  In  fact,  his  whole  countenance  was  sin 
gularly  like  that  of  the  poet,  only  formed  on  a  larger  scale 
and  modelled  more  ruggedly.  His  smile,  already  men 
tioned,  disclosing  the  adamantine  teeth  which  ill  health 
and  dissipation  had  not  been  able  to  impair,  was  singularly 
charming  and  unexpected,  gleaming  in  that  swarthy,  dour 
countenance  like  a  snow-wreath  in  a  cave.  .  .  .  His  voice, 
broadly  Virginian,  despite  his  education  in  Germany,  was 
slow,  deep  and  quietly  melancholy.  Looking  at  him  for 
the  first  time,  even  the  most  cynical  felt,  ''Here  is  a  man 
that  I  can  trust  to  the  bitter  end. ' ' 

Children  and  dogs  and  darkies  adored  him.  Women 
found  him  strangely  attractive.  He  had  never  married. 
And,  as  though  fate  had  determined  to  arrange  the  drama 
of  his  life  to  fit  the  look  of  tragedy  which  had  characterised 
his  face  from  boyhood,  his  celibacy  was  universally 
thought  to  be  the  result  of  a  dreadful  event  which  had 
happened  when  he  was  only  thirty-three.  This  was  the 
death  in  the  hunting  field  of  the  woman  he  loved.  Before 
his  eyes  she  had  been  thrown  and  dragged  by  her  horse 
until  .  .  .  but  such  things  are  better  left  undescribed. 
Sufficient  to  say  that  for  months  afterwards  poor  Patton 
was  like  a  maniac,  had  to  be  confined  and  cared  for  in  a 
sanatorium,  and  there  were  many  who  believed  that  his 
downward  course  dated  from  that  day,  and  was  the  direct 
result  of  it.  In  part  they  were  right  in  this  conclusion, 
but  the  root  of  the  matter  lay  deeper  in  some  mystery  of 
the  cellular  brain  tissues,  or,  as  some  would  say,  in  the  very 
atoms  of  his  soul. 

Patton  had  been  off  for  a  well-earned  holiday  in  the 
far  West  when  Owen  and  Phoebe  returned  from  abroad, 
and  this  was  to  be  his  first  meeting  with  them  both 
since  their  marriage.  He  had  been  called  away  to  a 
distant  village  at  that  time,  and  so  had  been  unable  to  be 
present. 

When  Phoebe  entered  the  rose-room  she  found  her 
father  and  his  cousin  in  deep  converse  on  one  of  the  sofas 
and  Owen  and  Patton  standing  with  parted  coat-tails  be 
fore  the  fire.  Patton  looked  like  a  benign  and  mam 
moth  crow  in  his  evening  clothes,  with  his  great  head 


VVORLD'S-END  319 

bent  a  little  forward  listening  to  what  Owen  was  saying. 

As  Phoebe  entered  he  dropped  his  big  coat-tails  and  came 
forward,  his  face  lighted  by  his  smile. 

"Is  this  little  Phoebe  or  some  foreign  princess?"  he  said, 
taking  both  her  hands  and  holding  them.  "Bless  the 
child!  I  do  believe  she's  been  growing  since  her  marriage 
— two  good  inches  taller  as  I'm  a  man  of  science.  You 
pretty  thing.  .  .  .  You  pretty  thing.  ..."  He  broke 
off.  smiling  again,  and  swinging  her  hands  to  and  fro. 
"  'Marriage  sholy  do  become  you,'  as  I  heard  an  old 
darkey  say  the  other  day.  Such  dignity !  .  .  .  Such  hoity- 
toityness !  .  .  .  Does  your  majesty  think  that  your  majesty 
could  condescend  to  give  me  a  kiss?" 

"Dear  Doctor  Charlie!"  cried  Phoebe  and  hugged  him. 
Such  had  been  her  name  for  him  since  her  babyhood. 
Somehow  she  felt  safer  when  those  huge,  bony  arms 
went  round  her  in  response  than  she  had  done  for 
many  a  day.  AYith  Owen  she  could  not  feel  safe,  because 
she  herself  was  a  menace  to  him.  But  here  was  someone 
who  could  protect  even  Owen  from  disaster — or  so  it 
seemed  to  her. 

"It's  the  beatings  that  have  improved  her  so,  Charles," 
said  Owen,  standing  by  with  his  hands  on  his  lean  flanks 
in  a  way  he  had.  ' '  A  woman,  a  dog  and  a  walnut  tree,  you 
know;  ...  I  do  it  for  her  good." 

"Yes  .  .  .  he  beats  me.  He  beats  me  dreadfully,"  said 
Phoebe,  with  a  little  laugh  that  caught  in  her  throat. 

"A  regular  Bill  Sykes,  eh?  ...  A  Benvenuto  Cellini 
.  .  .  and  I  suppose  you  adore  him  for  it  in  classic  female 
fashion?" 

' '  Yes  ...  I  adore  him.  ..."  said  Phoebe,  with  another 
of  the  little  laughs  that  were  like  sobs. 

Pat-ton  thought : 

"Over-strung  about  something  ...  or  just  a  woman's 
high-pressure  mood  over  nothing  probably  .  .  .  pupils 
markedly  dilated.  Wonder  if  the  little  witch  has  been 
using  bella  donna?  Must  give  her  a  scolding  later  if  she 
has." 

Aloud  he  said : 

"I  diagnose  the  case  as  typically  a  Desdemona-Othello 
instance  of  sporadic  infection  from  the  microbe,  .  .  . 
'Amor  stupendus,'  which  it  is  well  known  clogs  the  sys 
tem  with  even  greater  rapidity  than  the  deadly  trichina 
spiratis.  But  the  disease  is  only  fatal  when  brought  in  con- 


320  WORLD'S-END 

tact  with  the  lago  bacillus.  You  must  both  gargle  three 
times  a  day  with  antigeloso. " 

This  nonsense  brought  a  more  natural  laugh  from 
Phoebe,  and  Henry  Nelson  came  over  to  greet  her. 

"My  last  kiss  was  bestowed  on  a  pale,  little  bride,"  he 
said,  as  he  kissed  her  hot  cheek.  ' '  Now,  I  salute  a  proudly 
glowing  matron. ' ' 

Owen  laughed. 

"There,  Phoebe!"  he  said.  "The  black  gown  has  done 
its  work.  You  see,  you  strike  Mr.  Nelson  as  matronly." 

' '  The  puss  has  certainly  grown  very  tall  and  dignified, ' ' 
replied  the  rector. 

"And  as  I  said,"  put  in  Charles  Patton,  "he  thinks  that 
she 's  grown. ' ' 

"It's  really  the  black  frock,  Doctor  Charlie,"  said 
Phoebe,  glancing  down  at  herself. 

"Well,  you're  a  picture  in  it,"  retorted  he,  smiling. 
"You  remind  me  of  a  fairy  fallen  in  an  ink-pot." 

The  others  laughed  at  this  poetic  simile,  and  Mr.  Nel 
son  from  his  arm-chair  said : 

"I  have  never  seen  you  attired  in  black  before,  my 
daughter.  But  it  becomes  you  well.  Black  is  always  a 
dignified  wear,  though  tending  to  an  effect  of  gloom.  I 
am  glad  that  you  lightened  it  with  silver.  Is  it  customary 
nowadays  to  conceal  the  ears  so  completely?  I  should  think 
that  it  would  make  one  hard  of  hearing." 

"Don't  disturb  yourself,  sir,"  said  Patton.  "Eve  could 
hear  through  a  head-dress  of  prickly-pear  pads." 

Here  Dempsy  and  Mary  entered  together,  and  shortly 
came  Aunt  Charlotte  in  a  grand  toilette  of  robin-egg  taf 
feta  trimmed  with  blonde  lace  outlined  with  straw. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  an  old  darling!"  whispered 
Dempsy  to  Mary.  "I'm  sure  the  old  Duchess  of  Kent- 
Queen  Victoria's  mother,  you  know — wore  lace  like 
that." 

"It's  probably  a  cherished  heirloom  and  has  a  story," 
whispered  back  Mary.  "Ask  her  about  it  later.  She  loves 
to  have  her  finery  commented  on." 

Dempsy  took  the  first  opportunity  of  doing  so.  When 
Aunt  Charlotte  was  established  on  a  sofa  with  her  azure 
skirts  spread  amply  about  her,  and  her  handkerchief 
(which  she  wore  drooping  from  a  ring  and  chain  on  her 
little  finger)  carefully  adjusted,  she  ran  over  to  her  and 
drew  up  a  little  velvet-covered  "cricket."  seating  herself 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  321 

at  the  old  lady's  feet.  She  was  more  and  more  fascinated 
by  this  near  view  of  Aunt  Charlotte  en  grande  tcnue. 

The  point-lace  handkerchief  with  its  tiny  heart  of 
tli read  cambric — the  smelling  bottle  of  Persian  glass  in  its 
little  gold  filigree  holder — the  chicken-skin  fan  with  its 
painting  of  Venus  drawn  by  doves  and  surrounded  by  a 
covey  of  Cupids — the  hair-bracelet  with  its  chased-gold 
clasp,  and  the  long  crystal-drop  earrings  that  pulled  the 
lobes  of  the  old  ears  into  the  likeness  of  plump,  pink  oys 
ters, — all  these  adornments  seemed  to  her  too  wonderful 
for  reality. 

"Dear  Miss  Talliaf erro, "  she  said,  "your  gown  is  too 
perfectly  lovely !  .  .  .  I  was  talking  to  your  great-niece 
about  this  marvellous  lace,  and  she  said  she  thought  it  had 
a  story  and  that  I  might  ask  you  about  it.  Do  you  mind? 
I'm  English,  you  know,  and  we  have  some  enchanting 
old  ladies  in  England,  but  not  one  that's  a  patch  on 
you.  .  .  .  You're  too  darling  and  wonderful!  .  .  .  Do 
you  mind?" 

Aunt  Charlotte,  perfectly  charmed,  preened  herself  like 
a  bird  of  paradise  in  the  sunlight.  "Mind,  me  dear?" 
said  she.  "  Tis  a  joy  to  me  old  loyalist  heart  to  find  me- 
self  pleasing  to  a  daughter  of  the  mother  country.  Yes, 
me  love  ...  if  all  colonists  had  been  as  loyal  to  King 
Jarge  Hid  as  me  noble  grandfather  was,  .  .  .  'tis  a  sub 
ject  of  King  Jarge  Vth  would  be  talking  to  you  this  min 
ute!" 

Dempsy  felt  torrents  of  glee  inundating  her  inner 
world.  What  a  lark !  .  .  .  What  a  lovely  story  to  take 
back  to  England.  This  old  lady  might  have  just  stepped 
out  of  a  play  by  Congreve  with  her  "King  Jarges"  and 
"me  loves." 

"How  sweetly  original  of  you!"  she  cried.  "And  how 
plucky  you  are,  dear  Miss  Talliaferro.  If  I  were  an 
American  with  your  sentiments,  I  should  be  afraid  that 
the  other  Americans  would  tar  and  feather  me — isn't  that 
what  they  do  to  people  they  don't  approve  of?" 

Aunt  Charlotte  took  a  sniff  at  her  smelling  bottle  and 
winked  one  spirited  old  eye  over  it  at  the  delighted 
Dempsy. 

"Me  child,"  she  said — "did  anyone  lay  so  much  as  a 
finger  on  Charlotte  Talliaferro,  all  Virginia  would  rise  to 
a  man! — I'm  a  bit  of  history,  me  love,  and  America  has 
not  so  much  history  that  she  can  afford  to  destroy  any 


322  WORLD'S-END 

of  it!"  She  joined  her  dry  little  chuckle  to  Dempsy's 
gurgle  of  laughter. 

"And  what  about  the  Fourth  of  July,  and  the  Declara 
tion  of  Independence,  and  the  'Father  of  His  Country,' 
and  all  that?"  asked  the  subject  of  "Jarge  Vth." 

"The  Fourth  of  July,  me  dear,  is  me  'black  Monday' — 
and  the  Declaration  of  Independence  is  a  vastly  over 
rated  document — not  to  call  it  more  inelegantly  a  pretty 
pack  o'  lies.  Why,  take  one  of  the  first  statements,  child. 
Was  ever  such  a  monstrous  fib  as  that? — 'All  men  are 
born  free  and  equal.' — A  nigger  born  the  equal  of  a  Cau 
casian!  A  lame  man  born  the  equal  of  one  with  three 
legs !  A  blind  man  and  a  leper  born  free !  Fiddle-de-dee ! 
— Bombast  and  fustian! — As  for  Jarge  Washington,  me 
dear,  a  more  overrated  being  never  breathed ! — A  most 
middling  person  in  all  respects  save  luck.  Look  at  the 
peanut  nose  of  him  and  the  prunes  and  prism-y  mouth ! — 
And  hark  ye,  me  love.  None  so  chaste  as  the  man  history 
delights  to  honour! — Tut!  Tut! — They'd  have  us  think 
the  great  Jarge  was  of  so  ticklish  a  prudery  that  the 
sight  of  his  own  calf  without  a  stocking  would  bring  the 
blush  of  modesty  to  his  cheek.  Ne'er  ye  believe  it,  honey. 
A  right  naughty  dog  with  the  ladies  was  the  sainted  Jarge, 
unless  me  forbears  lied  worse  than  history,  and  was  proba 
bly  the  father  of  far  more  than  his  country,  me  dear! — " 

Dempsy  could  scarcely  believe  her  ears.  Here  was  an 
American  story  to  take  back,  as  fresh  as  Diana  rising 
from  a  dew-pond.  She  sat  absorbing  Aunt  Charlotte  at 
every  pore  of  her  clever,  imitative  mind, — her  accent,  her 
mannerisms,  her  little  air  of  having  been  the  confidante  of 
buried  centuries.  "Just  fancy!"  she  breathed,  to  keep 
her  going,  "if  you  could  have  your  way,  the  States  would 
be  part  of  England  now!" 

"That  they  would,  me  love.  But  Virginia  is  the  state 
of  states.  Had  she  but  been  loyal,  the  rest  would  have 
followed  as  sheep-burrs  move  with  a  mule's  tale.  But, 
lud! — Hear  me  likening  the  glorious  old  Dominion  to  a 
mule's  tale!  Similes  are  slippery  stepping  stones  to  fact, 
as  I  was  used  to  tell  poor  Mortimer  Smith — a  gifted  man, 
me  dear,  who  once  writ  a  sonnet  to  me  eyebrow, — or  rather 
to  me  whole  person.  In  those  days  me  hair  came  to  me 
ankles  and  was  gold  as  a  guinea.  But  as  to  Virginia,  me 
child,  did  ye  not  know  'twas  counted  one  of  England's 
kingdoms  in  those  days  ? — Fie !  ye  did  not  ?  Why,  Charles 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  323 

the  Second  was  proclaimed  King  of  England  on  the  eighth 
of  May,  1660,  and  on  the  twentieth  of  next  September 
was  proclaimed  in  Virginia,  and  the  seal  of  Virginia  bore 
the  motto,  'En  dat  Virginia  quintum,'  in  which  the  noun, 
'rcc/niun,'  is  understood.  'Behold,  Virginia  gives  the 
fifth  (kingdom)!'  Yes,  me  love!  Later,  in  1702,  they 
altered  it  to  ' quint am,'  to  agree  with  the  unexpressed 
noun,  'coroiiam' — 'Behold,  Virginia  gives  the  fifth  crown.' 
And  ye  really  did  not  know  that  ?  Well,  well.  The  Latin 
sticks  in  me  poor  brain  like  a  cockle-burr,  when  'tis  but 
a  sieve  for  the  name  of  the  last  vulgarian  that  sits  down 
so  lumpishly  in  the  presidential  chair!" 

Nothing  could  have  exceeded  the  scorn  with  which  Aunt 
Charlotte  mentioned  this  article  of  state  furniture. 

Dempsy  was  enjoying  herself  so  hugely  that  she 
sparkled  like  a  brown  diamond,  and  twisted  a  little  curl  of 
her  hair  round  and  round  regardless  of  her  coiffure — a 
trick  dating  back  to  lesson-conning  in  the  schoolroom. 

"And  the  lace,  dear  Miss  Talliaferro — don't  forget  the 
story  of  your  beautiful  lace,"  she  urged. 

"Bless  me  stars!  From  lace  to  Jarge  Washington  is  a 
far  cry,  me  dear.  Yes,  it  has  its  simple  annals,  me  dear 
old  lace.  'Twas  sent  to  me  mother  at  the  time  of  the 
sainted  Victoria's  coronation."  (Dempsy  gave  a  little 
wriggle  of  joy  at  her  own  astuteness,  as  she  crouched  en 
thralled  on  the  "cricket.")  "  "IV as  said  that  the  dear 
Queen  had  a  robe  garnished  with  the  same  lace  which  had 
been  given  her  by  Her  Royal  Highness,  the  Duchess." 
(Dempsy  wriggled  again.)  "But  there's  a  tale  of  sen 
timent  goes  with  it  also,  me  dear.  'Twas  at  a  dance,  when 
I  was  'sweet  and  twenty,'  that  a  bit  of  the  same  lace 
caught  on  the  button  of  the  gentleman  I  named  just  now 
— Mortimer  Smith — a  very  gifted,  poetical  man.  And 
what  must  he  needs  do  but  embody  me  poor,  torn  scrap  in 
the  poem  I  alluded  to.  'Tis  too  long  to  repeat  entire 
before  dinner,  but  I  will  quote  the  one  stanza. 

'That  rustic  flow'r,  Queen  Charlotte's  lace, 
Hath  in  my  heart's  herbarium  place, 
For  of  that  heart  is  Charlotte  queen, 
And  now  her  lace  may  there  be  seen.' 

'Tis  daintily  put,  do  you  not  think  so?" 

"It's  quite  too  utterly  charming!"  cried  Dempsy,  her 
appreciative  eyes  twinkling  like  a  marmoset 's.  ' '  Mind  you 


324  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

say  the  whole  of  it  to  me  sometime.     Now  you  won't  for 
get,  will  you?     How  does  it  begin?" 

And  Aunt  Charlotte,  beating  time  with  her  little  hand, 
all  crisscrossed  with  a  high  relief  of  slippery  lilac  veins, 
and  followed  in  its  motions  by  the  swinging  handkerchief, 
began  to  recite, — "Charlotte  to  praise  thee, — charms  like 
thine " 

In  the  meantime  Sally  and  Richard  had  entered  and, 
just  as  Aunt  Charlotte  pronounced  "immortal  powers," 
Jonathan  announced  dinner. 

All  at  once,  as  Phoebe  saw  Richard  entering  the  room  for 
the  second  time  that  day,  a  perfect,  calm  self-possession 
came  to  her.  It  was  a  phenomenon  something  like  that 
which  causes  a  condemned  man,  who  has  sweated  and 
trembled  in  his  cell  from  mortal  fear,  to  face  the  sight  of 
the  gallows  on  which  he  is  to  die  with  entire  fortitude. 

"Come,  Dempsy,  dear,"  she  called,  "I  know  just  how 
fascinating  Aunt  Charlotte  is,  but  we're  going  to  be  very 
grand  and  ceremonious  tonight  in  your  honour,  and 
Owen's  waiting  to  take  you  in." 

She  stood  smiling,  her  hand  on  the  rector's  arm,  while 
they  all  filed  past  her  into  the  lovely  central  hall,  with  its 
white  panelling  and  old  silver  lustres  now  winking  with 
candles.  (All  the  doorknobs  and  locks  and  fixtures  for 
light  at  "World 's-End  were  of  silver,  as  in  a  few  old  Vir 
ginian  houses.) 

And,  as  she  watched  them,  it  seemed  to  her  that  they 
were  figures  in  her  dream,  and  that  of  this  dream  she 
was  mistress  for  the  time  being,  for  this  evening,  at  least, 
and  could  control  them  as  she  pleased.  It  was  an  odd, 
encouraging  sensation,  akin  to  that  feeling  of  universal 
power  which  the  first  taste  of  opium  sometimes  gives. 
The  poppy  of  desperation  had  excited  rather  than  dulled 
her. 

So  the  little  procession  went  by  as  she  had  ordered  it — 
Owen  and  Dempsy,  Sally  and  Mr.  Nelson,  Mary  and  Rich 
ard,  Charles  Patton  with  Aunt  Charlotte,  and  then  she 
followed  with  the  rector — the  shepherdess  of  dreams  mar 
shalling  her  flock. 

The  native  soup  which  Phoebe  had  ordered,  thinking  it 
would  be  an  "amusing"  food  to  Dempsy,  met  with  great 
success. 

"Phoebe!    what    utterly    'deevy'    soup!"    she    cried. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  325 

"What  is  all  this  delicious,  slimy  stuff  that  looks  like 
glue  and  tastes  like  heaven?" 

"Okra,"  said   Phoebe,  laughing. 

"Not  yellow  ochre?" 

Dempsy  's  face  was  a  study ;  everybody  laughed  now. 

"No,  okra,"  said  Phoebe.  "It's  a  vegetable,  not  a  min 
eral." 

"That  sounds  as  if  we  were  playing  that  dear,  stupid 
game  of  'twenty  questions,'  "  returned  Dempsy.  "You 
must  give  me  tons  to  take  back  to  England  with  me." 

"Phoebe  looks  rather  different  from  what  she  did  the 
last  time  you  saw  her,  doesn't  she,  Cousin  Henry?"  asked 
Mary  of  the  rector,  across  the  table. 

"Indeed,  I  wyas  just  saying  as  much  to  her,  before  din 
ner,"  he  answered.  "A  paler  bride  I  never  saw,  and  I'm 
rather  a  connoisseur  in  brides." 

"Do  you  prefer  them  'blushing  like  the  dawn?'  "  asked 
Patton. 

"No.  I  confess  that  a  pale  bride  appeals  to  me  par 
ticularly.  There  is  something  pure  and  maidenly  in  such 
pallor  that  makes  it  touchingly  appropriate.  Our  little 
Phoebe  here  was  the  picture  of  virginal  sweetness.  Like 
a  little  snowdrop.  Now  'red  as  a  rose  is  she,'  and  quite 
as  becomingly." 

"Poor,  dear  child,  she'll  be  red  as  a  garden  of 
roses  if  you  go  on  with  your  ruthless  personalities, 
Cousin  Henry,"  said  Mary,  kindly  refraining  from 
looking  at  Phoebe,  who,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  had  gone 
white. 

"Dear  me!  Are  compliments  no  longer  in  fashion?" 
asked  the  rector,  smiling.  "I  surely  thought  the  old 
kinsman  who  married  her  could  praise  his  little  cousin 
without  confusing  her." 

"You  haven't  confused  me,  dear  Cousin  Henry,"  said 
Phoebe,  very  low  to  him.  "All  that  you  said  was  dear 
and  kind." 

"She's  recovered,  Henry,"  said  Charles  Patton  teas- 
ingly,  "but  she  actually  paled  for  a  moment  under  the 
impact  of  your  sonorous  praise.  'And  that  reminds  me,' 
as  our  national  anecdote-tellers  say,  of  a  line  of  poetry 
that  I  read  the  other  day  and  thought  quite  unique.  It 
ran  thus :  '  Aurora 's  fair,  flushed  face  some  paler  grew. ' — 
That  'some  paler'  is  powerfully  idiomatic,  don't  you  think 
so?" 


326  WORLD'S-END 

"Your  poet  was  certainly  from.  Yankee-land,  I  know 
that  much,"  smiled  Mary. 

Dempsy  was  trying  again  to  engage  Eichard  in  con 
versation,  or  rather  to  "bally-rag  him  into  uttering,"  as 
she  afterwards  told  Phoebe. 

"Don't  you  think  your  aunt-in-law  is  the  loveliest  thing 
in  that  black  frock  that  you  ever  looked  at?"  she  asked, 
surreptitiously  hiding  in  her  napkin  a  bit  of  the  "corn 
pone"  which  had  been  served  with  the  soup,  also  in  con 
cession  to  her  well-known  love  of  novelty,  and  which  she 
ungratefully  considered  "quite  the  nastiest  thing  that 
she  had  ever  tasted." 

"Very  handsome,"  said  Richard  in  his  noncommittal 
voice.  He  disliked  Dempsy  exceedingly.  Not  only  did 
she  jar  on  his  aesthetic  sensibilities,  but  she  was  the  cause, 
albeit  ignorant,  of  his  present  odious  position. 

Dempsy  looked  at  him,  and  then  laughed,  as  though  at 
a  secret  and  amusing  thought  of  her  own. 

Richard  grew  pale  with  anger,  but  merely  turned  to 
Mary  with  some  banal  remark. 

"Virginia,"  here  sounded  the  high,  shrill  pipe  of  Aunt 
Charlotte,  replying  to  some  remark  of  her  nephew's,  "Vir 
ginia  '  is  not  only  going  to  the  dogs,  me  dear  Thomas, — 
she's  already  in  the  kennel  and  the  door  stuffed  with 
straw.  What  with  her  political  messes  and  women  'boying 
it'  like  stage  Cleopatras  of  Shakespeare's  day — she's  clone 
for,  me  good  Thomas,  done  for! — I'd  rather  be  a  female 
dog  and  bay  the  moon  than  a  modern  Virginian  woman 
...  a  'suffragette!'  ' 

This  last  word  was  spat  forth  with  quintessential 
venom. 

"My  dear  aunt  .  .  .  my  dear  aunt  .  .  .  pray  con 
sider  the  surroundings  .  .  .  temper  your  speech,  I  im 
plore  you,"  expostulated  the  old  gentleman  in  a  low,  agi 
tated  voice. 

"Pooh!  Rubbish!  Ye 're  more  of  an  old  woman  than 
I  am,  me  poor  Thomas ;  ye  should  sup  on  posset  with  your 
timorous  shanks  in  a  mustard  footbath,"  she  growled  in 
response,  the  one  subject  that  ever  ruffled  her  otherwise 
serene  temper  being  the  question  of  "women's  rights," 
which  Patton  unfortunately  had  brought  up. 

"My  dear  aunt  ...  let  me  beseech  you  ...  on  this 
happy  occasion.  ...  A  controversy  of  personal  animos 
ity  would  so  painfully  jar  ..." 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  327 

"Painfully  fiddlesticks!"  said  the  irate  old  dame.  "Is 
a  body  to  sit  mumchance  while  Charles  Patton  airs  his 
retrograde  ideas?  How  do  ye  know  but  he'll  contami 
nate  Phoebe,  and  she'll  evince  her  precious  'rights'  by 
becoming  a  disciple  of  yon  dog  Malthus,  and  refusing  to 
bear  her  husband  an  heir!" 

"Aunt  Charlotte — if  you  have  one  scintilla  of  consider 
ation  for  me  and  mine,  you  will  desist  at  once,"  said  her 
nephew,  hoarse  and  purplish  with  apprehension.  "Your 
language  has  a  flavour  of  the  eighteenth  century,  which 
would  only  cause  discomfort  to  an  assembly  of  the  twen 
tieth." 

His  incensed  relative  gave  a  sibilant  sniff  and,  turning 
on  him  her  plump  shoulder  with  its  edging  of  straw- 
embroidered  lace,  engaged  Owen  with  some  remark  on 
another  subject. 

But  Richard  had  not  escaped  from  the  subject  of 
Phoebe  by  resorting  to  Mary's  soothing  if  not  congenial 
atmosphere  after  the  friction  of  Dempsy's  electric,  eel- 
like  personality. 

"I'm  so  proud  of  my  little  cousin,  Richard,"  she  said 
to  him  at  once.  "I  wonder  if  you  find  the  change  in 
her  as  marked  as  I  do?" 

"She  is  more  beautiful  than  she  was,"  said  Richard. 

"Yes,  isn't  she? — A  happy  marriage  is  like  some  won 
derful  spell.  She  has  bloomed  out  under  it  like  a  flower 
in  a  magician's  garden.  But,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  you 
don't  believe  in  marriage,  do  you?" 

"Not  for  myself." 

"One  could  scarcely  help  believing  in  it  for  Phoebe, 
could  one  ? "  • 

"No.     Scarcely." 

"How  monosyllabic  you  are  tonight,"  she  smiled. 
"Isn't  Miss  Torrance  to  have  the  benefit  of  some  of  your 
paradoxes?" 

Richard  frowned. 

"That  girl  is  detestable  ...  a  cornucopia  of  every 
British  philistinism." 

"Poor  Miss  Torrance!  And  I  thought  her  so  very 
nice." 

"To  me,"  said  Richard,  "she  is  insufferable.  The  sort 
of  woman  who  would  wear  a  pugree  on  her  hat  in  India, 
and  maim  tigers." 

"But  it's  very  sensible  to  wear  a  pugree  on  one's  hat 


328  WORLD'S-END 

in  India,  isn't  it?"  said  Mary,  who  couldn't  refrain  from 
goading  him  a  little. 

"I  should  have  said  that  she'd  wear  a  pugree  on  her 
mind.  That  expresses  my  meaning  better,"  retorted  Rich 
ard  with  his  sneer. 

Patton  here  said  something  to  Mary,  and  Richard  was 
left  to  his  own  thoughts,  for  Dempsy  was  deep  in  con 
sultation  with  Owen  about  tomorrow's  hunt. 

And  thus  left  in  peace,  if  what  Richard  felt  could  by 
any  stretch  be  called  "peace," — he  sat  looking  moodily 
at  the  great,  pollen-dusted  plumes  of  Mary's  epergne  of 
golden-rod,  yet  seeing  Phoebe  clearly,  though  his  black 
eyes  seemed  absorbed  with  the  flowers. 

He  saw  that  red  mouth  which  had  melted  and  quivered 
under  his  own  that  May  night  after  the  storm, — when 
that  other  crueller  storm  had  gathered  in  him,  blowing 
reason  and  pity  before  it  like  windle-straw ; — the  shin 
ing  hair,  with  which  he  had  laced  her  to  him,  now  glow 
ing  in  a  bright  crown  as  of  wifehood,  above  the  eyes 
which  had  once  gazed  at  him  with  shy  adoration,  and 
which  now  when  they  had  rested  on  his  face  for  an  instant 
had  been  filled  with  a  frozen  repulsion; — the  lovely 
throat, — the  little  breasts  that  had  beat  against  his  like 
scared  birds,  just  showing  timidly  above  the  soft  black  of 
her  bodice.  All  these  things, — now  by  right  another  man's, 
— he  saw  with  those  sullen,  veiled  eyes  of  his  that  seemed 
only  to  gaze  at  the  great,  yellow  field-flowers.  And  a 
sick,  torpid  anger  began  to  stir  him, — the  anger  that  might 
come  to  a  man  who  has  thrown  aside  a  ruby,  thinking  it  a 
bit  of  glass,  and  then  sees  that  another,  with  more  knowl 
edge,  has  picked  it  from  the  dust  and  set  it  fittingly. 

He  did  not  care  for  rubies  actually  or  symbolically, — 
yet  it  was  irritating  to  think  that  he  had  mistaken  one 
for  glass.  A  curious,  infinitely  base  feeling  of  secret  tri 
umph  stole  in  among  the  sluggish  current  of  his  auger, — 
the  feeling  that  he  had  first  tarnished  what  the  other  man 
now  cherished. 

He  glanced  with  his  secretive,  opaque  eyes  at  Owen, 
and,  strangely  enough,  Owen  at  the  same  moment  looked 
at  him. 

Richard's  hand  clenched  under  the  table, — his  chin 
jerked  sideways  with  that  inherited  trick. 

"You  are  not  coruscating  tonight,  my  dear  Richard," 
Owen  permitted  himself  the  slight  malevolence  of  saying. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  329 

"We  counted  on  you  to  impress  Miss  Torrance  with 
Young  America's  brilliancy." 

Dempsy  gave  that  little  provoking  laugh  of  hers. 

"I  believe  he's  in  the  silent  stage  of  being  in  love,"  she 
said.  "I  believe  he's  dreadfully  in  love  with  someone 
at  this  very  table!" 

Black  fangs  of  light  seemed  to  leap  from  Richard's 
eyes.  He  could  have  struck  Dempsy  on  the  mouth  with 
joy. 

"Can  one  blame  him?"  asked  Owen  serenely. 

"No  .  .  .  and  I'm  really  awfully  sorry  for  him,"  pur 
sued  Dempsy  maliciously.  "It  must  be  frightfully  hard 
on  a  man  to  be  in  love  with  some  one  who's  so  horribly 
in  love  with  her  own  husband." 

Richard  had  turned  away  again.  Now  he  ventured  to 
glance  once  directly  at  Phoebe.  She  was  listening  ear 
nestly  to  something  that  Charles  Patton  was  saying,  her 
elbow  on  the  table,  her  chin  resting  on  her  palm.  This 
was  a  new  thought  to  Richard,  this  idea  of  her  being  in 
love  with  his  uncle.  It  had  never  crossed  his  mind  before. 
He  had  understood,  as  he  had  told  his  mother,  how  impos 
sible  it  had  been  for  one  in  Phoebe's  situation  to  refuse 

such  an  offer  of  salvation  as  Owen 's  had  been, but  that 

she  gave  him  anything  but  a  grateful  regard  had  never 
occurred  to  him  for  an  instant.  Could  it  be  possible? 
Did  that  soft,  amourcuse  mouth  melt  for  Owen  now  as 
it  had  once  clone  for  him? — Could  a  woman  feel  another 
passion  so  quickly  ? — Was  it  possible  ?  .  .  .  Had  that  spite 
ful  little  English  minx  hit  upon  the  truth?  As  though 
hypnotised  by  his  black  eyes,  which  he  had  forgotten  to 
withdraw  in  the  absorption  of  his  thought,  Phoebe  moved 
restlessly, — glanced  right  and  then  left,  then  full  at  him. 

Into  her  eyes, — into  her  whole  face — came  a  sick,  cold 
look,  a  look  that  he  had  once  seen  in  them  when,  after  a 
rainy  day  at  Nelson 's  Gift,  one  of  the  loathsome  centipedes 
that  infest  rotten  wood  had  crawled  out  along  the  step 
of  the  front  porch. 

Quickly  she  looked  away, — straight  this  time  at  her  hus 
band,  a  look  of  dumb,  strained  appeal,  as  though  for  help. 
And  suddenly  there  floated  over  her  white  face  the  love 
liest  warm  rose.  Instinctively  he  glanced  back  at  Owen. 
Yes. — those  gold-grey  eyes  were  answering  hers, sig 
nalling  some  strong  aid,  some  potent,  secret  force  that  had 
sent  the  bright  blood  welling  upward  from  her  heart; — 


330  WORLD'S-END 

and  now,  again  glancing  at  her,  he  saw  on  her  face  and 
in  her  great,  dilated  eyes  the  look  of  one  who  regards 
divinity.  Love,  a  passionate  gratitude,  but  chiefly  that 
full,  rapt  glow  of  adoration,  lit  the  eyes  that  had  just 
shrunk  away  from  his  as  from  some  noxious  reptile. 

Once  more  he  glanced  at  Owen.  Somehow  he  did  not 
at  all  fit  the  simile  of  the  Praying  Mantis;  the  husband's 
motley  sat  on  him  like  a  holiday  garment.  Mated  lions, 
Kichard  reflected  grudgingly,  are  not  undignified,  and 
there  was  something  in  those  tawny  eyes  of  his  uncle  that 
reminded  him  now  of  a  lion's  eyes.  He  recalled  how,  hav 
ing  been  delayed  once  in  Marseilles,  he  had  strolled  out 
to  the  zoological  gardens,  and  stopped  fascinated  by  a 
cage  where  a  Numidian  lion  and  his  mate  had  not  long 
been  confined. 

It  had  been  autumn,  and  the  two  great  beasts  were 
sunning  themselves  in  their  small  courtyard  under  an 
aspen.  The  brown,  crisp  leaves  floated  down  continually 
through  the  mild  air,  and  the  lioness,  lying  on  hc;i  back, 
struck  at  them  lazily  with  her  big  cushiony  paws,  just  as 
a  kitten  might  have  done.  Couched  beside  her,  like  some 
huge,  heraldic  beast,  the  lion  watched  her  with  his  golden 
eyes  from  under  the  black  pomp  of  his  mane.  Now  and 
then  he  would  gently  lick  her  shoulder,  as  she  might  have 
licked  the  hide  of  one  of  her  cubs,  and  in  those  steady 
golden  eyes  of  the  male  was  the  softness  of  a  creature 
regarding  its  young,  rather  than  of  the  desert  king  looking 
upon  his  mate. 

Just  this  look  was  in  Owen's  steady,  softened  eyes  as 
he  glanced  at  Phoebe.  Richard  had  seen  such  a  look 
often  in  his  own  mother's  eyes  when  she  wished  to  reas 
sure  him  in  some  pain  or  anxiety. 

Then  his  glance  happened  to  fall  from  Owen's  eyes  to 
his  hand,  which  was  resting  on  the  edge  of  the  table.  It 
was  a  large  hand,  even  for  his  great  size, — long,  broad, 
and  well  shaped,  but  constructed  for  strength  like  some 
cunning  machine  made  for  gripping  and  crushing.  The 
bones,  supplely  knit  together,  showed  plainly  under  the 
dark  surface ;  the  broad  wrist  and  back  were  covered  with 
short,  dark  hair  like  those  of  a  son  of  Anak. 

Richard  looked  from  it  to  his  own  delicately  modelled 
hand,  smooth  and  fine  as  a  bit  of  old  ivory.  The  thought 
came  to  him  how  that  big,  hairy  hand  lying  relaxed  there 
on  the  polished  surface  of  the  table  could  crush  his  own 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  331 

hand  to  pulp,  merely  by  grinding  it  in  one  steady  grasp. 
Men  must  have  had  such  hands  in  the  stone-age,  he 
thought,  irritated  by  its  primitive  strength  and  hairiness. 
lie  remembered  the  story  of  a  man  of  just  such  abnormal 
power  as  Owen,  who  had  torn  the  muscle  from  an  enemy's 
arm  as  a  child  rips  the  pith  from  an  orange.  He  shivered 
slightly  and,  forcing  his  eyes  away  from  the  dark,  quiet 
hand,  which  seemed  to  mesmerise  them,  saw  that  his 
mother  was  looking  at  him  with  furtive  nervousness. 

He  tried  to  smile  at  her,  but  his  chin  only  jerked  side 
ways.  If  that  hand  were  ever  to  grasp  in  anger  at  his 
throat  ...  if  by  some  fatality  Owen  ever  knew.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  subdued  noise  of  chairs  being  pushed  back. 
Phoebe  had  signalled  to  Dempsy  with  the  little  smiling 
nod  that  signifies  dinner  is  over. 


XLI 

pIIARLES  PATTON  was  the  only  friend  with  whom 
^  Owen  was  really  intimate.  There  were  several  men 
whom  he  was  fond  of,  and  many  whom  he  liked  very 
well  indeed,  but  only  with  Patton  did  he  ever  speak  of 
things  very  close  to  him.  He  was  glad,  therefore,  when 
Patton  stayed  on  after  the  rector  had  gone,  saying  that, 
as  there  would  be  a  moon  at  eleven,  he  would  stop  for  a 
"crack"  with  him,  as  his  friend,  Andrew  Graeme,  put  it. 

Mr.  Nelson  always  went  to  bed  at  ten,  and  tonight  all 
the  women  had  retired  when  he  did,  so  that  Chven  and 
Patton  found  themselves  free  to  go  to  the  former's  study 
and  take  each  a  big,  leather  armchair  before  the  fire  that 
Jonathan  had  just  heaped  with  fresh  logs  of  "red-heart" 
cedar. 

With  pipes  lighted  and  legs  crossed,  they  grinned  at 
each  other  affectionately. 

"This  is  something  like,  old  man,"  said  Patton.  "As 
inspiring  as  the  ladies  are,  for  solid  comfort  give  me  a 
pipe,  a  wood-fire  and  my  chum." 

"It's  good  to  see  your  gloomy  old  mug  again,  Charles. 
Now  tell  me  about  Sally.  How  serious  is  it?" 

Patton  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  scrutinised  it 
thoughtfully ;  then,  as  if  assured  that  it  was  the  same  old 
briar,  he  put  it  back  again. 


332  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D 

"Anything  with  the  heart  is  serious,  my  dear  fellow. 
But  there's  no  reason,  with  proper  care,  why  Sally 
shouldn't  live  along  as  comfortably  as  most  of  us.  Her 
trouble  is  valvular. — I  won't  go  into  scientific  terminology 
— a  weakness  of  the  right  valve.  But  those  attacks  of 
angina  pectoris  that  she  had  so  often  in  the  beginning 
were  chiefly  due  to  hysteria,  in  my  opinion.  Sally  will 
be  fifty-three  in  March.  That  is  rather  a  serious  climac 
teric  with  some  women,  you  know.  And  she's  deucediy 
high-strung  and  high-tempered,  if  you'll  excuse  plain  lan 
guage.  Works  herself  up  over  things, — lets  herself  go. — 
I've  held  forth  with  considerable  force  on  that  subject,  and 
I  believe  I've  rather  impressed  her.  Any  sort  of  inner 
commotion  is  bad  for  her.  If  people  only  realised  the 
direct  pathological  connection  of  a  bad  temper  with  the 
arterial  system,  there 'd  be  many  more  angels  in  our 
houses. ' ' 

Owen  smoked  for  some  seconds  in  silence,  then  he  said : 

"You  talk  such  a  lot,  Charles,  I  believe  that  poor  Sally 
is  worse  off  than  you  want  to  admit." 

"Well  ...  a  cantankerous  heart-valve  is  not  like  a 
toothache,"  admitted  Patton  grudgingly.  "She  can't 
have  it  out  like  a  troublesome  molar,  and  she  can't  lead 
the  exciting,  helter-skelter  life  she's  been  used  t<".  But 
with  proper  care  .  .  .  And  then  there's  Miss  Mary  .  .  . 
she's  been  my  right  hand  in  all  this.  A  splendid  woman. 
Sally  will  listen  to  her  when  she  simply  walks  through  my 
orders  like  a  circus  girl  through  a  hoop  of  paper.  Her 
own  sister  couldn't  have  been  better  to  Sally  than  that 
dear  girl  has  been." 

Owen's  face  grew  soft. 

"You  can't  give  me  news  about  Mary  Talliaferro, 
Charles.  There's  no  one  quite  like  her.  You  and  Mary- 
yes,  you  two, — well, — you  make  things  worth  while." 

He  looked  round  at  Patton  suddenly. 

"Do  you  know,  Charles?  ...  I  think  your  happiness 
may  be  there — and  you  just  snoozing  calmly  like  a  bat  hid 
ing  from  the  sunlight." 

Patton,  who,  for  all  the  simplicity  of  his  nature,  was 
a  man  of  keen  observation,  smiled  rather  drily.  "Miss 
Mary, ' '  said  he,  ' '  has  about  as  much  i  lea  of  marrying 
anyone  as  she  has  of  going  to  Timbuctoo  as  a  mission 
ary." 

"She  might  make  a   mission   of   Charles  Patton  with 


WORLD'S-END  333 

good  results.  Why,  she's  devoted  to  you.  Mary  isn't  the 
kind  to  be  head-over-heels  in  love.  She's  too  sensible  and 
balanced.  You  aren't  looking  for  a  Juliet,  are  you? 
Mary  is  Portia  and  Rosalind  in  one." 

Pattori  thought: 

"You're  the  bat,  not  I,  old  man,"  but  Mary's  secret, 
which  he  had  divined  long  ago,  was  as  safe  with  him  as 
all  those  other  secrets  which  sometimes  weighed  rather 
heavily  on  his  kind,  melancholy  heart. 

He  said  tranquilly: 

"I'm  no  more  the  marrying  type  than  Miss  Mary, — 
bless  her  sweet  heart.  Nature  turns  out  certain  celibates 
with  the  bump  of  maternity,  and  paternity,  and  a  depres 
sion  where  the  bump  of  amorous  activity  should  be. 
We're  the  sort, — she  and  I,  who  were  born  commissioned 
to  look  after  the  orphans, — those  with  parents  as  well  as 
those  without.  Now  we're  mothering  and  fathering  poor 
Sally.  We  haven't  time  to  spare  for  amorous  friskings. " 

"All  the  same  ,.  .  ."  began  Owen. 

"All  the  same,  you're  a  dear  old  ass,"  said  Patton 
cheerfully.  "You'd  break  up  a  beautiful  friendship  to 
patch  it  into  a  makeshift  marriage.  It's  the  inveterate 
match-making  instinct  that  afflicts  all  happy  newly-weds." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Owen,  smiling,  but  he  looked  un 
convinced. 

"And  you  really  think  that  Sally's  in  no  immediate 
danger?"  he  asked,  a  moment  later. 

"I've  said  that  any  trouble  with  the  heart  is  serious, 
but  if  she'll  be  reasonable  she  may  outlast  us  both,  old 
man.  That  is  .  .  ." 

"That  is?  .  .  ."  Owen  prompted. 

"I've  an  idea,"  said  Patton  slowly,  "that  the  gifted 
Richard  gives  her  a  devil  of  a  lot  of  worry." 

' '  Why  do  you  think  so  ? " 

"Have  you  never  caught  her  watching  him? — I  say 
'caught  her'  because  she  does  it  with  great  caution.  But 
from  time  to  time, — when  she  thinks  everyone  is  engaged 
with  something  else, — she  looks  at  him.  in  a  heartbreak- 
ingiy  anxious  sort  of  way.  Haven't  you  noticed  it?" 

"Once  or  twice  .  .  .  yes,  I  think  so." 

"Do  you  know  what  the  fellow's  been  up  to? — I  never 
'cottoned  to'  Richard,  as  you're  aware.  Thank  God, 
you're  married  to  that  dear  girl. — Let's  have  a  boy  to 
break  Richard's  fine  nose  thoroughly,  as  soon  as  possible. 


334  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

please.  But  do  you  know  if  Master  Dickon  has  been  in 
mischief  ? ' ' 

Owen  knocked  out  his  pipe  against  the  chimney,  and, 
taking  up  another,  began  filling  it  from  the  tobacco  pouch 
that  lay  between  them.  "You  forget  I've  been  abroad 
for  over  a  year.  Richard  is  rather  a  'canny'  character, 
as  a  rule.  What  sort  of  mischief  do  you  fancy  would 
attract  him?" 

"Ah,"  said  Patton,  "that  is  quite  beyond  me.  The 
divagations  of  that  young  man's  imagination  are  quite 
out  of  my  scope.  Something  deeply,  darkly,  sinuously  ec 
centric,  I  should  say.  But  then,  who  knows?  Those 
demi-semi-geniuses,  with  their  finical  scorn  for  the  blunt, 
beaten  paths  of  humanity,  are  just  the  chaps  to  succumb 
to  a  sudden  seizure  of  commonplace  brutality.  They  go 
about  tricking  out  their  anaemic  phantasies  in  sorts  of 
Montezuma  cloaks  of  painted  feathers,  and  presto !  one 
fine  day  they  wake  to  find  themselves  begigged  over  a 
squaw  or  a  Lapland  wench." 

"You  really  think  Richard,  with  all  his  fastidiousness, 
capable  of  brutality?" 

"I  do,"  said  Patton.  "It's  all  in  the  left  side  of  his 
face, — only  you're  used  to  seeing  both  halves  together." 

"Lombroso?"  asked  Owen,  looking  rather  surprised. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Patton.  "All  the  children  of 
men,  you  and  I  among  them,  are  asymmetric.  But  there's 
one  half  of  the  human  face  that  always  gives  a  person 
away.  I  don't  know  exactly  when  I  first  found  it  out, — 
long  before  it  became  popularly  known,  though.  You 
must  have  seen  examples  of  it  in  magazines.  No? — Well, 
— get  me  some  photographs — any,  so  that  they're  full- face, 
— and  I'll  show  you." 

Owen  opened  a  drawer  in  his  desk,  and  took  out  a 
handful  of  photographs  at  random.  Patton  spread  them 
out  under  the  light  of  the  double  student 's-larnp. 

"Capital,"  he  said;  "here's  our  hero  himself,  one  of 
Sally,  one  of  you.  That's  enough." 

He  pushed  the  rest  aside,  and  took  an  envelope  from  a 
case  of  letter  paper. 

"Now  look  here,"  he  said,  "we'll  do  you  first.  What 
a  shocking  photo  you  make,  by  the  way.  Nearly  all  ir 
regularly  good-looking  men  do,  I  believe." 

' '  Charles,  you  overwhelm  me ! ' ' 

"Tut!  you  know  very  well  you're  good  looking.    If  one 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  335 

but  touches  your  biceps  in  friendship,  you  swell  up  like 
the  strong  man  at  a  fair. — But  look.  D'ye  see  this?" 

lie  placed  the  white  envelope  so  that  it  cut  the  photo 
graphed  face  in  two  longitudinally. 

"Now,  on  this  side  you're  grave,  melancholy,  even  soft- 
looking.  See  the  droop  of  the  lid  and  eyebrow?  Ideal 
ism.  The  mouth-corner  is  almost  womanish, — almost  too 
sweet.  Now  look  ..." 

He  whipped  the  paper  to  the  other  side. 

"By  George!  It's  more  marked  in  you  than  in  most 
people.  Look  at  that  left  eye  ! — Hard,  implacable, — al 
most  as  ruthless  as  Sally's  in  one  of  her  tantrums.  And 
the  mouth — there's  savagery  in  it.  See  how  the  corner 
dips;  grim,  a  stone-age  mouth.  Even  the  jaw  has  a  dif 
ferent  set  from  this  side.  Look  how  it  juts.  It's  the  face 
of  a  man  who  could  run  'amok'  under  sufficient  provoca 
tion  ...  'go  Berserk.'  ' 

"It's  extraordinary!"  exclaimed  Owen,  staring  down  at 
the  unfamiliar  side  of  his  face,  revealed  to  him  thus  un 
expectedly  as  in  a  magic  mirror.  "And,  I  must  say, 
singularly  unpleasant.  "When  did  you  first  do  this, 
Charles?" 

"Can't  remember  to  save  my  life.  I've  tried  often.  I 
must  have  been  a  mere  lad  when  I  first  chanced  upon  it. 
Now  we'll  have  a  go  at  Sally.  There — you  see?  This 
side  merely  thoughtful,  the  eye  mild,  the  wing  of  the  lip 
gentle,  candid.  Now  this  other.  Look  at  the  temper  in 
that  slightly  drawn-up  under  lid.  Look  at  the  lines  of 
the  mouth,  straight  and  thin  as  a  crack.  And  the  fore 
head — even  under  the  photographer's  touchings-up  you 
can  see  the  nervous,  petulant  drawing  of  the  frontal 
muscles.  There's  Sally,  the  worst  enemy  of  her  own  heart 
— to  her  secret  life.  Now  we'll  have  young  Baudelaire — 
Mallarme.  Come — this  side  shows  up  better  than  I 
thought.  Eye  quite  straightforward  and  affectionate, 
mouth  composed, — nostril  a  little  stingy,  but  not  over 
mean.  Now  let's  see  the  worst  of  him.  By  Jingo!  Owen, 
look  at  that  eye  and  mouth  and  nostril.  There's  nothing 
subtle  there, — Caliban  dressed  in  velvet, — that's  what. 
Yet  not  Simon-pure  Caliban,  either, — it  hasn't  enough 
force  for  that.  A  by-blow  of  Caliban  got  on  Shelley's 
Witch  of  Atlas.  But  there's  brutality,  all  the  same,  just 
as  I  thought." 

He  put  his  great,  spatulate  thumb  on  the  corner  of 


336  WORLD'S-END 

the  photographed  mouth.  "See  that  squaring  out  of  the 
lip  just  here,  like  the  mouth  in  a  Greek  mask  of  Comedy? 
In  a  human  face  that  means  brutality  of  the  cheap  kind. 
The  sort  that  will  sputter  out  in  unexpected  words,  or  take 
refuge  in  a  mean  passivity.  Poof! — I  like  you  less  than 
ever,  young  gentleman." 

And  he  flipped  the  photograph  from  him  and  went 
again  to  his  armchair. 

"Interesting,  though, — isn't  it?"  he  said. 

"Very.  But  rather  depressing.  I  knew  I  had  a  devil 
somewhere  in  me,  but  I  didn't  know  that  he  showed  in 
my  face  before." 

"Cheer  up.  He  doesn't  when  your  two  halves  are 
looked  at  together,  and  that's  the  way  people  always 
see  one." 

"And  you're  not  a  disciple  of  Lombroso?" 

"No.     The  theory's  too  good  to  be  true." 

"And  what  of  Nordau?" 

"A.  granny! — Green  specs,  yellow  specs,  black  specs. 
A  pinch  of  experience  will  hoist  a  stellar  system  of  the 
ory." 

They  both  smoked  in  silence  for  some  minutes,  then 
Patton  said: 

"You  don't  know,  old  man,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you 
so  happy." 

"Thanks,  Charles.     I  am  happy." 

"Without  reservations?" 

"I  can't  help  being  worried  about  Sally.  And  ..." 
He  hesitated.  "Well,  Richard  isn't  exactly  a  joy  in  my 
life,  I  confess.  I  blame  myself  about  him,  Charles." 

"In  what  way?" 

"I  think  I  might  have  helped  him  to  be  ...  well  .  .  . 
something  more  genuine  than  he  is." 

"No,  sir.  .  .  .  He  came  a  waxwork  from  his  mother's 
womb,  and  he'll  return  to  nature's  matrix  a  waxwork." 

"You  contradict  yourself,  my  dear  chap.  A  waxwork 
can't  be  brutal." 

"Yes,  it  can, — if  its  works  get  out  of  order.  A  wax 
work  individual  off  the  track  is  as  destructive  sometimes 
as  a  'wild  engine.'  ' 

"You  think  Richard  is  in  danger  of  being  detraque?" 

"  I  'm  going  by  the  look  in  Sally 's  eyes  when  she  watches 
him  on  the  sly." 

Owen  clasped  both  hands  behind  his  head  and  gave  a 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  337 

long  stretch,  looking  up  at  the  blended  rounds  of  light 
cast  by  the  double  lamp  on  the  ceiling.  Then  he  sat  up 
suddenly.  The  reflection  of  a  lamp  on  the  ceiling  always 
recalled  that  terrible  day  of  little  Diana's  birth. 

"Well,  old  man."  said  Charles  Patton,  looking  at  him 
with  whimsical  affection,  "what  wasp  stung  you  then?" 

Leaning  forward,  Owen  knocked  out  his  second  pipe 
and  laid  it  aside. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  harries  me  like  the  deuce,  Charles." 
he  said.  "It's  the  idea  that  poor  Sally's  disappointment 
over  Richard's  prospects  may  have  a  lot  to  do  with 
this  sudden  development  of  heart  trouble.  I've  been 
twisting  and  turning  it  every  way.  Of  course  ...  as  it 
is  .  .  ." 

"As  it  is,  you've  married  one  of  the  sweetest  young 
creatures  in  the  world,  and  your  money  will  naturally  go 
to  her  children,"  said  Patton  bluntly. 

"Not  all,  Charles.  That  wouldn't  be  playing  a  fair 
game." 

Patton  grunted. 

"You  know  it  wouldn't,  Charles." 

"Well  .  .  .  perhaps,"  admitted  Patton  with  another 
grunt.  "What  do  you  propose  doing?" 

"That's  exactly  what  I  want  to  talk  over  with  you." 

Patton  glanced  at  him  sharply. 

"You  don't  propose  increasing  Richard's  allowance,  I 
hope?" 

"No.  Put  I  thought  of  making  a  provision  in  my  will 
that  would  leave  him  with  a  good  income.  I  thought 
that  when  I  had  decided  on  the  amount  and  got  every 
thing  in  shape  it  might  comfort  Sally  to  let  her  see  it." 

"Mph!"  grunted  his  friend  a  third  time.  "And  \vhat 
may  be  the  amount  you've  decided  on?" 

"I  haven't  decided  yet,  old  Crusty.  That's  where  I 
want  your  advice." 

"My  advice,"  said  Patton,  speaking  with  his  teeth  on 
the  mouthpiece  of  his  pipe,  "my  advice, — if  wraxworks 
could  swim, — would  be  to  chuck  him  out  into  the  stream  of 
things,  sink  or  swim,  and  let  him  test  his  precious  talents 
on  their  bread-winning  value." 

"No,  no,  old  fellow.  You  can't  bring  up  a  lad  as  I've 
helped  to  bring  up  Richard  and  then  chuck  him  out  with 
out  a  penny.  Come,  Charles,  be  practical.  How  much 
should  you  say? — And,  when  we've  settled  that,  tell  me 


338  WORLD'S-END 

your  opinion  about  reassuring  Sally  by  letting  her  see  my 
will." 

By  the  time  they  had  hammered  this  out  between  them, 
and  Patton  had  said,  with  some  sarcasm,  that  he  thought 
the  sight  of  what  Owen  had  finally  decided  that  Richard 
should  inherit  would  be  an  excellent  heart-tonic  even  for 
a  moribund, — it  was  long  past  eleven  o'clock. 

Owen  stood  on  the  North  Portico  until  Patton  had  rid 
den  off,  and  then,  leaving  Jonathan  to  shoot  home  the 
big  bolts,  went  upstairs  cautiously,  so  as  not  to  disturb 
the  sleeping  house. 

Seeing  a  light  under  Phoebe's  door,  he  knocked  softly, — 
waited,  then  knocked  again.  Feeling  sure  that  she  was 
not  there,  he  turned  the  knob  and  went  in.  The  fire  had 
sunk  into  a  mass  of  glowing  coals  over  which  flickered 
delicate  blue  and  lilac  flames  veined  with  gold.  On  a 
little  table  by  the  sofa  a  lamp  under  its  shade  of  white- 
silk  burned  low.  The  room  was  warm  and  sweet  with  the 
fragrance  of  cedar-wood  and  powdered  orris.  One  of  the 
windows  had  been  left  open,  and  the  woodsy,  pungent 
breath  of  the  October  night  mingled  with  the  languid  air 
within. 

Already  the  room  was  saturated  with  Phoebe's  person 
ality.  It  looked  to  him  familiar  and  yet  strange,  like  a 
well-known  face  under  a  new  headdress.  Everywhere  lay 
the  pretty  articles  that  were  as  characteristic  of  her  as 
her  eyes  and  hair;  the  bag  of  white  silk  embroidered  with 
wild  roses  that  held  her  bedroom  slippers  by  day, — the 
white  Angora  rug  thrown  back  upon  the  sofa ; — the  little 
lace  and  batiste  pillow  upon  the  larger  cushion ;  the  ivory 
paper-cutter  with  "P.  R."  in  turquoises  that  he  had 
given  her  shortly  after  their  marriage ; — the  ivory  brushes 
and  boxes  on  her  dressing  table,  marked  in  the  same  way — 
that  sweet,  pure  scent  of  orris. 

The  hollowed  bracken  where  a  doe  has  been  couching 
does  not  speak  more  clearly  of  its  late  occupant  than 
Phoebe's  bedroom  spoke  of  her.  And  as  he  looked  ten 
derly  about  him  the  arm  of  the  pretty  nightdress  of  rose 
batiste — that  America  had  laid  ready  on  the  sofa  to  catch 
the  fire  glow, — waved  softly  in  the  draught  from  the  win 
dow  like  something  stirring  in  sleep. 

Owen  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  it  gently,  smiling. 
Then,  noticing  the  little  rose-coloured  mules  that  stood 
on  the  white  hearth-rug  in  the  "first  position"  for  danc- 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  339 

ing,  he  picked  one  up  and  set  it  on  his  palm.  The  Cin 
derella  shoe  lay  on  his  big  palm  like  a  quaint  slipper- 
orchid.  It  was  shaped  by  Phoebe's  foot,— he  could  see 
the  moulding  of  the  slim  toes  in  the  rose  silk,  and,  lifting 
it,  lie  kissed  it,  smiling  again. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  hanging  sleeve  waved  beckon- 
ingly  in  the  increased  draught.  It  was  Phoebe  who  came 
in,  her  bedroom  candle  still  lighted  in  her  hand.  She  was 
in  her  dressing-gown,  with  hair  unbraided,  and  she  looked 
very  pale  now. 

''I've  been  with  Dempsy  all  this  time,"  she  said,  com 
ing  over  to  the  fire.  "She's  such  a  chatterbox.  ...  I 
couldn't  get  away.  Is  it  very  late?" 

"Almost  midnight.  You  look  tired,  my  darling.  Come 
rest  here  a  minute." 

He  put  her  on  the  sofa,  drew  the  fur  over  her  and 
closed  the  window.  Then  he  came  and  sat  beside  her. 
"I  only  wanted  to  tell  you  how  charming  you  were  to 
night,  sweetheart.  I  thought  you'd  be  asleep  long  ago." 

She  played  with  his  hand  without  looking  at  him.  "No. 
...  I  have  such  a  headache.  I  couldn't  have  slept,  any 
way." 

"Poor  dear!'  He  bent  over  and  kissed  her  hair. 
"Can't  I  play  maid!  "Won't  you  go  to  bed  at  once!" 

He  thought  of  the  heartache  which  that  "headache" 
stood  for,  and  longed  to  gather  her  to  his  own  heart  and 
comfort  her,  but  he  refrained.  For  her,  as  well  as  for  him, 
he  thought,  any  expression  of  physical  love  with  that  other 
under  the  same  roof  would  be  abhorrent.  And,  watching 
her  face  with  its  lowered,  nervously  quivering  eyelids,  he 
felt  that  some  special  struggle  was  taking  place  in  her. 
"There,  darling,"  he  said,  suddenly  rising.  "I'll  go  and 
undress,  and  you  get  into  bed  as  fast  as  ever  you  can." 

Her  lips  parted,  closed,  parted  again,  and  now  the 
colour  flewr  into  her  face.  She  took  his  hand  in  both 
hers  and  held  it  to  her  cheek. 

"AYhat  is  it,   dear?"  he  asked. 

"I  ...  I  thought  ...  it  is  only  ...  I  ...  my  head 
does  ache  so  dreadfully.  ...  If  you  don't  mind  .  .  . 
perhaps  I  could  ...  I  would  sleep  better  ...  by  my 
self.  "^ 

He  understood  at  once.  With  that  other  in  the  house 
she  could  not  bear  him  to  be  near  her  as  her  husband. 
He  answered  quickly: 


340  WORLD'S-END 

"You're  quite  right,  sweetheart.  I'll  run  off  at  once. 
You're  sure  I  can't  do  anything  before  I  go?" 

She  kissed  his  hand  almost  timidly — the  merest  soft 
brush  with  closed  lips — a  little,  staid  caress,  like  the  kiss 
bestowed  on  royalty's  hand  at  a  court  function. 

"No  .  .  ."  she  said  very  low.  "Oh,  yes— yes!"  she 
cried,  suddenly  starting  up,  her  clasped  hands  against  his 
breast.  "You  can  tell  me  I  don't  make  you  unhappy  .  .  . 
that  you're  not  disappointed  in  me.  .  .  .  Don't  tell  me 
if  it  isn't  true.  .  .  .  But  if  you  could.  ..." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  pressed  her  head  down 
against  his  heart. 

"Do  you  hear  that  talking  under  your  ear,  child?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  ." 

"It  speaks  better  than  I  can.  Every  beat  is  a  throb 
of  joy  because  you're  in  it." 

"Oh,  I  can  sleep  now!  ...  I  can  sleep  ..."  she  cried, 
and  burst  into  sudden  weeping. 

He  held  her  close  without  a  word,  and  for  some  mo 
ments  she  wept  on  softly,  piteously,  like  a  child  who  has 
been  forgiven,  but  that  cannot  forgive  itself. 

Breakfast  was  early  the  next  morning,  as  it  had  been 
decided  that  Richard  and  Dempsy  should  put  in  a  day 
wTith  the  Warwick  Hounds,  and  the  meet  was  10.30  and 
four  miles  distant. 

As  much  as  he  disliked  the  English  girl,  he  welcomed 
this  natural  escape  from  the  impossible  situation  at 
World 's-End.  Dempsy  was  to  ride  The  Clown  and  he  a 
clever  hunter  of  Owen's  called  "Paternoster."  It  irri 
tated  and  humiliated  him  under  the  circumstances  to  ride 
his  uncle's  horse,  but  Borak  had  cast  a  shoe  and  there 
was  no  way  out. 

Sunlight  slanted  in  between  the  white  columns  through 
the  plants  and  flowers  in  the  quaint,  narrow  conserva 
tory  that  ran  across  the  east  wing  in  front  of  the  dining- 
room.  It  fell  in  a  quivering  skein  over  the  dark  mirror 
of  the  round  table  with  its  mats  of  old  Flemish  lace  and 
central  dish  of  butter  wreathed  in  forced  nasturtiums. 

Behind  the  Sheffield  urn,  so  familiar  from  his  boj'hood, 
Phoebe  sat  making  coffee  as  he  had  been  used  always  to 
see  his  mother. 

Perhaps  nothing  since  his  arrival  the  night  before  had 
given  him  such  a  sense  of  inextricably  tangled  reality  and 
unreality  as  the  sight  of  those  energetic  white  little  hands 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  341 

grasping  the  black  handle  of  the  old  urn  that  the  long, 
sallow  hands  had  so  long  been  accustomed  to  wield.  He 
glanced  at  his  mother;  she  was  slowly  shredding  a  nas 
turtium  flower,  looking  down  at  it  as  she  did  so.  And  he 
knew, — from  the  strangely  tense  bond  of  sympathy  that 
knit  them  together  like  an  umbilical  cord  of  the  spirit, — 
that  this  making  of  coffee  in  the  old  Sheffield  urn  by 
Phoebe  was  one  of  those  bitternesses,  so  grievously  dispro 
portionate  to  their  size,  which  are  as  hard  to  bear  some 
times  as  matters  far  more  weighty. 

And  for  himself,  too,  it  was  a  bitter  thing  to  see  her 
there  in  his  mother's  place,  the  girl  that  he  had  thought, 
at  best,  to  maintain  in  decent  comfort  as  his  mistress, — 
sitting  there  as  mistress  not  of  him,  but  of  the  beautiful  old 
house  that  he  had  always  looked  upon  as  his,  and  that 
had  now  passed  from  him  irrevocably. 

In  the  clear  light  of  morning,  in  her  simple  coat  and 
skirt  of  mouse-coloured  velveteen,  with  her  hair  coiled 
low,  English  fashion,  at  the  back  of  her  head,  the  vital 
change  in  her  struck  him  somehow  more  even  than  it  had 
done  the  night  before.  For  all  the  soft  contours  of  her 
youth,  it  was  a  woman  who  sat  there  quietly  and  deftly 
making  coffee  for  her  guests,  not  the  excitable,  shy  coun 
try  girl  that  he  had  known.  Experience,  sad,  and  deep, 
and  vital,  had  left  the  sign  of  its  sharp  chrism  on  flesh 
and  spirit.  And  Richard,  who  had  once  been  able  to 
divine  her  thoughts  from  her  expression  almost  as  surely 
as  he  had  divined  his  mother's  just  now,  wondered  what 
was  passing  behind  the  clear,  broad  forehead,  under  the 
"  widow  's-peak  "  of  sorrel  hair. 

It  was  a  strange,  singularly  unpleasant  sensation  to  be 
loathed.  To  be  sharply  disliked  he  had  often  found  stimu 
lating, — but  the  look  that  he  had  surprised  on  her  face 
last  evening, — that  cold,  sick  look,  as  of  someone  happen 
ing  to  see  a  slimy  reptile.  .  .  .  Richard's  self-love  and 
vanity  writhed  uneasily  under  the  memory  of  that  look. 
And,  glancing  at  Deinpsy,  all  pimpante  and  cocky  in  her 
smart  Melton-cloth  habit,  he  felt  his  hatred  for  her  as  the 
cause  of  his  present  dilemma  increase  tenfold. 

She,  in  the  meantime,  quite  aware  of  his  antipathy, 
rather  tickled  by  it  and  returning  it  ' '  full  measure  pressed 
down  and  running  over," — seeing  that  her  way  of  speak 
ing  and  eating,  merely  of  living,  moving  and  having  her 
being — irritated  him  to  the  utmost  degree, — exaggerated 


342  WORLD'S-END 

all  her  oddities  of  speech  and  manner,  with  the  malicious 
delight  of  a  little  monkey  out  of  reach,  teasing  some  more 
dangerous  creature. 

' '  At  least, ' '  she  thought,  ' '  if  the  sulky  beast  won 't  talk, 
I  '11  get  some  fun  by  baiting  him. ' ' 

They  went  into  the  South  Hall  for  cigarettes  and  pipes. 

"Nine-thirty,"  said  Owen,  looking  at  his  watch. 
"You've  twenty  minutes  yet." 

Dempsy  took  her  cigarette  from  her  mouth  and  called 
to  Phoebe,  who  was  standing  with  Mary  at  one  of  the 
Windows : 

"I  must  see  that  lamb  awake  before  I  go — do  have  her 
down  here  at  once,  like  a  dear." 

' '  I  think  the  nurse  has  gone  out  with  her, ' '  said  Phoebe. 
She  wondered  if  she  said  this  naturally, — such  an  inner 
trembling  had  seized  her  at  Dempsy 's  words. 

Mary,  who  was  still  looking  out  of  window,  tapped 
suddenly  on  the  glass. 

"There  she  is  now!"  she  cried.  She  tapped  sharply 
again  and  beckoned,  nodding  and  smiling.  "Giles  was 
just  going  into  the  garden  with  her.  She  heard  me. 
She's  bringing  the  baby  now,  Miss  Torrance." 

As  she  spoke  the  front  door  opened  and  Giles  came  in 
with  little  Diana  on  her  arm,  looking  like  a  puff  of  thistle 
down  in  her  fleecy  white  coat  and  cap. 

"Oh,  you  duck!  You  lamb  of  love!"  cried  Dempsy, 
throwing  away  her  cigarette  and  rushing  at  the  baby. 
* '  Give  her  to  me,  nurse,  do ! — Why,  she  isn  't  a  bit  fright 
ened  !  You  love-duck !  See  what  a  lovely  pony  Dempsy 
makes!" 

And  she  began  a  little  gallopade  down  the  hall  with 
the  child  in  her  arms. 

Diana  was  enchanted.  She  beat  with  her  mittened 
hand  on  Dempsy 's  shoulder,  and  jumped  in  her  arms 
as  though  she  were  gallopading  too. 

The  girl  pranced  back  with  her,  then,  seating  herself, 
took  off  the  fluffy  cap. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  laughing,  as  the  soft  blowse  of  red- 
gold  curls  was  revealed.  "How  ridiculous!  She's  just 
Phoebe  seen  through  the  wrong  end  of  an  opera  glass.  I 
never  saw  such  an  absurd  likeness.  And  how  strong  she 
is!"  she  added,  as  the  baby  reared  back,  the  better  to 
absorb  the  new  face  looking  down,  at  her.  "Does  she 
walk  yet?" 


WORLD'S-END  343 

"No,  miss,"  said  Giles,  who  had  stepped  forward  to 
take  the  cap.  "But  she  crawls  something  wonderful.  I 
do  think  as  IIOAV  she'll  walk  very  shortly,  miss,  and  her 
only  eight  months  old  come  the  twentieth  of  this  month." 

Dempsy  set  Diana  promptly  on  the  floor. 

"I  simply  must  see  her  crawl!"  she  exclaimed. 

And  at  once  little  Di  began  a  swift,  crablike  movement, 
planting  her  mittened  hands  firmly  and  using  her  small 
legs  as  though  swimming. 

Dempsy  plumped  down  beside  her,  and  accompanied 
her  in  the  same  manner  across  the  hall.  They  brought  up 
near  Richard,  who  was  standing  by  one  of  the  hall  tables 
not  far  from  Owen. 

"Da-da-da-da,"  said  the  baby,  throwing  her  head  back 
as  she  rested  on  her  firm  little  arms,  and  staring  up  at 
him.  Then  a  delicious  smile  broke  all  over  her  little  face. 
She  lifted  one  hand,  and  moved  thumb  and  finger  together 
in  one  of  her  imperious  gestures. 

' '  Da-da !     Da-da  ! ' '  she  called. 

"Bless  me,  goosie, "  said  Dempsy.  "That  isn't  your 
da-da.  There's  your  da-da.  .  ,  ." 

She  took  the  baby's  head  in  her  hands  and  turned  it 
towards  Owen. 

"It's  a  wise  child  that  knows  its  own  father,"  she 
laughed.  "Fancy  anyone  taking  you  for  anything  so 
commonplace  as  a  parent,  Mr.  Bryce!" 

To  herself  she  thought: 

"Dear  me!  What  a  temper  the  brute  has!  I  mustn't 
provoke  him  too  far  or  he'll  ride  over  me  today  or  some 
thing." 

She  thought  that  Richard's  pallor  came  from  vexation. 
He  stood  gazing  down  at  the  child  as  though  hypnotised. 
Diana  made  a  plunge  forward  and  caught  his  riding-boot 
in  both  arms,  her  head  still  thrown  back,  her  pretty  chuckle 
ringing. 

"Oh  .  .  .  look  at  him!"  laughed  Dempsy,  her  impish- 
ness  getting  the  better  of  her  prudence.  "Do  look  at  him, 
everybody!  He's  positively  scared  to  death! — Babypho- 
bia!" 

She  sat  back  on  her  heels,  revelling  with  malicious  glee 
in  the  strange,  perturbed  expression  on  Richard's  face, 
which  certainly  resembled  terror.  Suddenly  she  swooped 
on  the  baby,  gathered  her  up  and  thrust  her  into  his  arms. 

' '  Hold  her !    Hold  her,  man ! — or  she  11  fall ! ' '  she  cried, 


344  WORLD'S-END 

convulsed  with  hoydenish  laughter.  "Oh!  did  you  ever 
see  anything  so  funny!" 

And  she  stood  back,  with  peal  after  peal  of  mirth,  at 
the  sight  of  Richard,  white  as  his  shirt,  holding  the  baby 
awkwardly  to  him. 

Owen  had  started  forward,  but,  before  he  could  get  to 
Richard,  Phoebe  was  there. 

She  gathered  the  child  in  her  arms  without  a  word,  and, 
going  over  again  to  the  window,  began  tapping  softly  on 
the  glass  to  amuse  it,  her  back  to  the  others. 

"Why — I  believe  Phoebe's  vexed  with  me,"  said 
Dempsy  in  a  crestfallen  tone.  She  ran  over  to  Phoebe. 
"Please  don't  be  vexed  with  me,  you  dear  thing,"  she 
said.  "He  wouldn't  really  have  let  her  fall,  you  know. 
And,  oh !  it  was  so  funny  to  see  him  in  such  a  funk.  He 
did  look  so  absurd  .  .  .  and  I'm  sure  he'd  rather  break 
his  neck  at  the  first  fence  today  than  look  absurd  for  a 
second.  Are  you  vexed,  Phoebe?" 

"No  ...  I'm  not  vexed,"  said  Phoebe  almost  inaud- 
ibly. 

' '  You  are ! ' '  retorted  Dempsy,  pouting.  ' '  I  must  say 
I  didn't  know  you  would  get  so  miffed  over  such  a  little 
thing.  I  do  think  it's  rather  hard  on  me,  Phoebe." 

"I'm  not  ...  I'm  not  vexed  ...  I  swear  I'm  not," 
said  Phoebe,  with  so  much  smothered  passion  in  her  voice 
that  Dempsy  was  checked. 

"The  fact  is,  I'm  a  horrid  little  hoyden  sometimes," 
she  said  penitently.  "And  that  man  does  make  me  want 
to  do  the  most  idiotic  things.  But  I  really  wouldn't  have 
vexed  you  for  the  world." 

"Oh,  Dempsy! — Please  ..."  said  Phoebe,  and  there 
was  something  in  her  voice  that  made  Dempsy  turn  away, 
saying : 

"I  should  think  we  ought  to  be  going  on  if  that  meet 
is  at  half-past  ten." 

"While  Dempsy  had  been  talking  with  Phoebe,  old  Mr. 
Nelson,  wrho  had  come  downstairs  after  having  toast  and 
coffee  in  his  bedroom,  and  had  caught  the  last  of  Dempsy 's 
singularly  unfortunate  tomboyish  jesting  with  Rich 
ard,  remarked,  smiling:  "Now  that  you've  seen  our  little 
one,  Mr.  Bryce,  do  you  not  think  that  a  portrait  of  Phoebe 
with  her  babe  would  far  excel  the  one  that  you  made  of  her 
with  her  tame  crow?  I  confess  that  I  should  like  to  see 
you  try  your  skill  on  such  a  pleasant  subject," 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  845 

Richard  managed  to  reply  that  his  hand  was  out  of 
practice, — that  he  had  been  more  absorbed  in  music  than 
in  painting  for  the  last  year. 

Sally  said : 

"You  remember  that  my  brother  did  not  think  Richard 
capable  of  interpreting  Phoebe's  type,  Mr.  Nelson." 

Her  voice  was  not  bitter,  merely  toneless.  She  was 
engaging  the  old  gentleman  in  order  to  give  Richard  a 
chance  to  recover  himself.  The  situation  just  then  seemed 
as  impossible  to  her  as  it  had  done  to  him  the  night  before. 
And  the  expression  on  Owen's  face  as  he  had  started  for 
ward  to  take  the  child  from  Richard  had  struck  her  as 
very  singular. 

This  look  stayed  with  her  all  day.  It  was  out  of 
the  question  that  Owen  should  know  anything.  And  yet 
there  had  been  a  look  in  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Never,  never  had 
people  been  placed  in  so  abominable,  so  monstrous  a  posi 
tion  as  they  two.  .  .  .  Yes,  and  Phoebe  .  .  .  she  even 
found  it  in  her  heart  to  pity  Phoebe  just  then.  That 
must  have  been  a  moment  of  dreadful  and  humiliating  an 
guish, — when  she  had  seen  her  child  in  the  arms  of  the 
man  who  was  really  its  father,  while  the  man  who  thought 
himself  its  father, — her  husband, — stood  looking  on.  Yes, 
she  was  to  be  pitied.  "Poor,  wretched  girl,"  thought 
Sally.  Then  the  reflex  thought  came  swiftly.  "She 
brought  it  on  herself,— on  us  all.  It's  her  own  doing.  I 
pity  her,  but  I  hate  her,  too. ' ' 

It  was  fortunate  for  Richard  that  Dempsy  was  so 
subdued  by  the  failure  of  her  jest  that  she  trotted  to  the 
meet  in  almost  unbroken  silence.  lie  rode  beside  her  as 
silently,  his  face  set  and  his  hands  cold  in  their  dogskin 
gloves.  That  contact  of  his  child's  flesh,  about  which  his 
mother  had  warned  him,  had  not  roused  in  him  the  feel 
ing  which  she  had  foreseen.  A  chill  horror  and  revulsion 
had  filled  him.  There,  living,  breathing,  clutching  him 
with  imperious,  strong  little  hands, — was  his  pleasant  sin 
of  a  moment  clothed  in  flesh  and  blood.  There,  his  own 
creation,  was  what  stood  between  him  and  his  whole  future. 
The  child's  beauty,  which  the  artist  in  him  recognised  at 
once,  seemed  a  diabolical  irony.  It  was  as  if  fate  had 
said  :  ' '  You  prefer  things  exquisite  ?  Very  well — here  is 
stark  fact  for  you  dressed  out  like  a  flower." 

A  moment — one  moment  of  madness — and   lo! — a  liv- 


346  WORLD  'S-END 

ing  being  moved  and  breathed  to  destined  ends, — a  part 
of  himself,  yet  separate  as  only  one  individual  is  separate 
from  another. 


XLIi 

ICHARD  went  to  his  mother's  room  that  night  after 
everyone  had  retired. 

She  looked  very  thin  and  ill  in  her  dressing-gown  of 
dark  violet  brocade. 

"Do  you  feel  up  to  a  talk,  mother?"  he  said,  hesi 
tating. 

"Yes — quite.     I've  some  things  that  I  must  say  to  you." 

"And  I  to  you.  I  never  spent  such  a  day.  It's  been 
almost  as  hard  for  you,  I  know." 

"Yes,"  said  his  mother,  looking  up  at  him  and  turning 
the  rings,  now  so  loose,  round  and  round  on  her  emaciated 
fingers. 

Richard  bent,  and  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips.  It  was 
his  favourite  way  of  expressing  his  tenderness  for  her. 

"There's  something  I  want  to  ask  you,  but  I  hate  to 
suggest  anything  that  may  trouble  you." 

She  gave  a  tired  sigh. 

"There's  no  use  trying  to  shirk  things  at  this  pass, 
Richard.  I  think  I  feel  better  for  having  you  to  speak 
out  to.  What  is  it  that  you  want  to  ask?" 

He  sat  down  in  the  easy  chair  drawn  up  near  hers,  and 
rested  both  arms  on  the  side  next  her.  Leaning  close  to 
her,  he  said  very  low: 

"Mother  .  .  .  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  Uncle 
Owen  suspects  .  .  .  something?" 

Sally's  hand  went  to  her  side. 

They  sat  looking  at  each  other  fixedly.  Then  she  said 
in  a  voice  as  low  as  his : 

"Yes — this  morning — when  she  took  the  child  from 
you — I  thought — I  noticed  a  strange  expression  in  her 
eyes — as  if " 

She  shivered,  leaving  the  sentence  unfinished. 

Richard  gazed  sombrely  down  at  his  folded  arms.  "I 
didn't  notice  that — I  was  too " 

He  also  broke  off. 

A  curious  gleam  crossed  his  mother's  face.  "What  did 
you  feel — when  you  held  your  child,  Richard?" 


W  O  H  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

He  answered  thickly : 

"It  wasn't  as  you  think. — It  was  horrible " 

"Yes — perhaps  a  man  would  feel  that  way — at  first," 
she  said  with  some  coldness. 

"It  was  horrible,"  he  repeated.  "It  was  like  touching 
one's  own  hand  between  sleep  and  waking,  and  thinking 
it  someone  else's  hand.  Yes — that  sort  of  feeling " 

"But  the  child's  beautiful— as  I  said." 

"That  only  makes  it  more  savagely  ironical,  somehow." 

His  mother  said  in  a  peculiar  tone: 

"Perhaps  it's  just  as  well  you  don't  feel  drawn  to  it 
...  it  might  add  to  your  suffering." 

"Yes — let's  thank  the  gods  I'm  not  paternal,"  he  said 
with  cynical  frankness.  "That  would  be  the  last  straw." 

He  was  staring  at  the  fire,  and  so  did  not  see  the  look 
of  hostility  that  flashed  into  his  mother's  eyes  for  an 
instant. 

"Poor  boy,"  she  said  gently  the  next  moment.  "After 
all.  it's  only  natural  when  one  thinks " 

They  sat  silent  again.    Then  Richard  began  abruptly: 

"But,  mother — about  my  uncle.  You  say  you  noticed 
something  in  his  look  this  morning.  And  ever  since  I 
came  there's  been  something  in  his  manner,—  something 
undefined  but  chilling — a  sort  of  restraint,  as  though  he 
were  coercing  himself  to  speak  to  me  and  look  at  me.  It's 
impossible, — don't  you  think  so? — that  he  could  guess  at 
even  part  of  the  truth?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sally  slowly.  "I  don't  believe  even  his 
will — and  he's  got  the  will  of  giants — could  restrain  him 
if  he  knew." 

"Then  what  do  you  think  it  is?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  there -are  strange  things  in  life 
that  no  one  understands.  Perhaps,  without  knowledge, 
his  instinct  makes  him  shrink  from  you.  Yes, — I  think  it's 
an  instinctive  feeling." 

"It's  there — whatever  it  is,"  he  said  gloomily. 

"Yes,  it's  there." 

Again  there  was  silence.  Richard  bent  over  and  threw 
a  fresh  log  on  the  fire  from  the  willow  basket  near  the 
hearth.  A  cloud  of  spaiks  like  a  swarm  of  gilded  gnats 
fled  up  the  chimney. 

"How  is  it  all  to  end?"  he  asked  bitterly,  leaning  back 
again.  "I  can't  keep  this  up.  mother — no  mortal  could. 
It  would  take  some  being  with  nerves  like  steel-filings  and 


348  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

bowels  of  brass  to  act  out  such,  a  hideous,  abominable 
farce.  And  do  you  think  that  even  if  I  could  keep  it  up — • 
she  could? — Mother — we've  got  to  face  it.  It's  impossible. 
If  he's  got  some  instinctive  feeling  against  me  now,  what 
will  it  grow  into  with  time?" 

He  rose  and  began  moving  softly  to  and  fro,  picking  his 
feet  up  and  placing  them  carefully  again,  like  a  cat  walk 
ing  through  wet  grass, — watching  them  as  he  did  so, — 
his  chin  jerking  nervously  sideways  every  now  and  then. 
He  came  and  stood  near  her  again. 

' '  Why,  good  God !  did  you  see  her  face  today  when  she 
took  the  child  from  me  ?  That  was  enough  to  set  any  man 
thinking.  You've  said  they'll  merely  think  she  has  an 
antipathy  for  me.  Yes — but  one  doesn't  snatch  away  a 
child  as  from  a  leper  just  because  one  feels  antipathy. 
I  tell  you,  mother,  we're  all  walking  on  a  crust  of  lava." 

Sally  looked  up  at  him,  and  her  brows  worked  nerv 
ously. 

"Well,— but  what  can  we  do?" 

' '  If  you  'd  only  agree  to  let  me  drop  it  by  degrees ' ' 

He  broke  off  and  said  in  an  excited  whisper: 

"I  can't  stand  it,  mother.  I  tell  you  no  man  could 
stand  it.  The  degradation  of  it  is  appalling.  Am  I  to 
lap  mud  for  dead  men's  shoes?" 

' '  Richard— Richard ' ' 

"You've  never  had  anyone  look  at  you  as  though  you 
were  offal "  he  went  on  violently.  "By  God  ..." 

"Richard  .  .  .  Richard  ..."  she  said  again. 

He  threw  himself  down  beside  her  and  buried  his  face 
in  her  hands,  holding  them  close  with  both  his  own. 

"Mother,"  he  stammered  into  her  soft,  hot  palms  that 
smelt  faintly  of  vervaine.  .  "There  are  things  you  don't 
understand — I  can't  tell  you.  But  when  she  looks  at  me 
like  that— a  devil — a  cold  devil  stirs  in  me." 

Sally  grew  pale. 

She  drew  her  hands  sharply  from  under  his  face  and 
set  them  on  his  shoulders.  Shaking  them  slightly,  she  said 
in  a  harsh  voice : 

"Richard!  Control  yourself!  You're  acting  like  an 
hysterical  woman." 

He  lifted  a  distorted  face  to  hers  and  gave  his  short, 
cynical  laugh. 

"By  God!"  he  said  again.  "No  woman  ever  felt  as 
I  do." 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  349 

"You  speak  like  an  insane  person!"  she  exclaimed, 
trying  to  sober  him  by  her  glacial  tone,  but  he  only  gave 
another  of  those  short,  grating  laughs. 

"I  never  claimed  inviolate  sanity,"  he  retorted.  "And 
what  I've  been  through  today  might  unbalance  a  more 
phlegmatic  mind  than  I  have." 

Sally's  heart  began  to  beat  painfully.  She  tried  another 
tone  with  him. 

"If  you'll  only  be  a  little  patient,  Eichard.  I've  told 
you  this  is  the  worst.  It  will  never,  never  be  as  hard  as 
this  again." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  resumed  that  catlike  prowling. 
Just  so  Sally  herself  had  prowled  about  this  very  room 
after  Owen  had  told  her  of  his  coming  marriage  with 
Phoebe.  She  saw  herself,  with  her  dark,  unbridled  tem 
per,  in  her  son,  and  her  painfully  throbbing  heart  sank 
within  her.  And  what  did  he  mean — what  dark,  dread 
ful  thing  lay  hid  in  his  words  about  a  "cold  devil"  stir 
ring  in  him  when  Phoebe  looked  at  him?  She  gazed  at 
the  set,  ivory-hued  face,  with  its  opaque  black  eyes  and 
brooding  brows, — and  something  that  she  had  never  no 
ticed  in  it  before,  a  second  personality,  as  it  were,  seemed 
to  look  with  a  stranger's  look  from  that  familiar  face  of 
her  iirst-born, — her  only  son.  Yes, — as  closely  as  they 
were  knit,  as  near  as  he  had  always  been  to  her, — the 
severance  of  individuality  put  out  its  cold,  strong  arm, 
thrusting  her  away, — thrusting  her  out  from  the  inner 
secret  of  his  present  mood. 

Desperately  she  tried  yet  another  tone  with  him.  "My 
son,"  she  said  softly,  "come  here  beside  me  again  and 
let  us  see  if  together  we  can't  think  of  some  solution." 

lie  came  as  she  asked,  and  sat  down  again  in  the  arm 
chair,  but,  though  his  face  was  now  composed,  its  pale 
mask  shut  her  out  from  the  core  of  himself  hidden  far 
beneath  it. 

"You  see,  dear,"  she  began  in  a  practical  voice,  "it  isn't 
as  if  you  were  striving  for  a  favour.  It  is  your  rights — 
your  rights— that  are  in  question." 

He  answered  in  an  even,  colourless  voice. 

"You  forget.     I've  passed  on  my  rights." 

"No,  Richard.  Your  folly  has  cost  you  a  great  fortune, 
but  by  right  a  part  of  it  is  still  yours.  No  matter  what 
you  have  done, — nothing  can  destroy  your  right  to  a  part 
at  least  of  your  grandfather's  money." 


350  WORLD'S-END 

He  looked  oddly  immovable. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "my  own  father  had  the  misfor- 
tune  to  lose  that  part  of  my  grandfather's  money  which 
I  had  a  direct  right  to." 

The  calm  lucidity  of  this  reasoning  irritated  his  mother. 

"No,"  she  said  with  bitter  feeling.  "His  fortune  was 
too  unevenly  divided  for  that.  I  know  Owen.  I  know 
that  with  his  ideas  he  must  provide  justly  for  you — that 
is,  if  you  do  not  lose  your  head  altogether. ' ' 

"All  the  same,  it's  degrading,"  he  said  between  his 
teeth. 

She  felt  sharp  anger  against  him  for  a  moment. 

"I  suppose  you  will  not  deny  me  a  sense  of  honour,"  she 
remarked  drily.  "And  I  say  that  to  act  like  a  rational 
being  in  order  to  secure  what  is  your  own  by  every  moral 
law  is  not  degrading  in  any  sense." 

"I  think,"  said  Richard,  smiling  at  the  fire, — "I  do 
think,  mother, — that  the  less  we  say  about  moral  law  in 
this  matter  the  better." 

Sally  flushed  to  her  hair. 

She  said,  after  a  moment's  pause,  under  her  breath, 
"You  must  indeed  be  suffering  to  be  willing  to  wound  me 
so  cruelly." 

Richard  was  on  his  knees  beside  her  in  an  instant. 

"Mother!  you  oughtn't  to  be  angry.  You  ought  to  like 
it  in  me  that  I  can  think  more  of  my  own  sense  of  de 
cency  than  of  some  wretched  thousands." 

"I  do — I  do "  she  said  soothingly,  melted  by  the 

desperation  in  his  voice.  "But  that  makes  me  all  the 
more  anxious  to  protect  you  against  yourself.  Against 
this  mistaken,  quixotic  mood  you're  in.  You  may  think 
me  cynical,  my  poor  boy,  but  I  tell  you  from  the  bottom 
of  a  bitter  experience  that  there  is  no  grief  that  money 
cannot  assuage.  Don't  mistake  me,"  she  put  in  quickly, 
as  she  felt  his  arm  twitch  under  her  hand.  "I  don't  mean 
repay — wipe  out — but  in  years  to  come, — when,  instead  of 
a  wretched,  anxious  poverty,  you  look  out  at  life  from  the 
comfortable  window  of  means, — you  will  thank  me.  You 
will  say:  'Yes,  my  mother  knew  best.' — Oh,  you  will! 
You  will ! — Believe  me — for  your  own  sake  believe  me, 
my  dear,  dear  son." 

Her  thin  arms  were  round  him,  pressing  him  close  to 
her,  and  her  cheek  was  upon  his  hair. 

He  knelt,  holding  her  in  silence,  then  he  said : 


W  O  K  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  351 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  know  that  your  every  thought 
is  for  my  good,  mother?  It's  only  that  this  thing — this 
damnable  tiling' — seems  beyond  my  power  of  endurance." 

She  stroked  his  hair,  still  holding  him  to  her.  "Tell 
me — tell  me  everything,  darling,"  she  coaxed,  as  though 
he  were  a  little  boy  again,  struggling  with  some  secret  that 
he  longed  yet  was  ashamed  to  confide  to  her.  "Is  it — it 
can't  be  that  you — that  she  still  has " 

"I  can't  explain  it— you  wouldn't  understand,"  he  mut 
tered.  "I  wouldn't  want  you  to  understand." 

"She  has  some— attraction  for  you  still?" 

She  felt  his  forehead  damp  under  her  caressing  hand. 

"It's  the  attraction  of  repulsion — when  she  looks  at  me 
like  that — as  if  I  were  refuse." 

"Hush!  hush!"  murmured  she,  soothing  him. 

"You  wouldn't  understand  even  if  I  could  explain." 

"You  mean  that  whatever  love  you  had  for  her  has 
turned  to  hatred?" 

"1  mean."  he  said  in  that  thick  voice  which  evinced 
overwhelming  emotion  with  him,  "I  should  like  to — to  hu 
miliate  her — to  the  utmost ' 

' '  Hush  !  hush  ! ' '  crooned  Sally,  rocking  his  head  against 
her  breast. 

His  voice  was  a  husky  whisper  now. 

"I  feel  such  a  devil  that  it  scares  me " 

"Hush,  boy,  hush!" 

"All  right,  mother.  I  said  you  couldn't  understand. 
I  don't  understand  myself — but  it's  there " 

She  held  his  head  against  her  breast  for  some  time, 
cradling  it  in  her  arms,  dropping  soft  kisses  on  the  smooth 
black  hair,  as  when  lie  had  been  a  tiny  lad, — then  she  be 
gan  speaking  softly,  coaxingly. 

"You  see,  dear — you're  overwrought  now.  It  will  be 
much,  much  easier  next  time.  And  you  needn't  come 
often — perhaps  once  or  twice  a  year.  I'll  always  come 
with  you.  Now,  for  instance,  in  November,  you  need 

only  stay  two  or  three  days.  Perhaps "  (She  had 

felt  his  chin  jerk  against  her  breast.)  "Perhaps  you 
might  wait  until  Christmas.  Then  this  bitter  feeling 
against  her  will  have  lost  its  edge.  I " 

' '  Oh.  mother !  mother ! "  he  broke  in  with  a  groan. 
"Don't  you  know  a  feeling  like  that  doesn't  lose  its  edge? 
— It  will  get  worse  every  time.  Every  time  she  will  look 
at  me  with  greater  loathing.  And  I " 


352  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

He  drew  gently  away  from  her,  putting  his  hand  to 
his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  leave  you  now,"  he  said.  "My 
head  feels  so  strange — I'll  have  to  go  and  lie  down." 

"Yes,  yes,  darling,"  she  urged  him.  "Go  and  get  some 
good  sleep.  You  will  see  it  all  differently  tomorrow.  Go 
and  sleep,  boy.  You  are  worn  out." 

His  face  had  a  curious,  withheld  look  as  he  stooped  to 
kiss  her.  She  had  not  understood,  and  he  was  glad  that 
she  had  not,  yet  he  felt  an  odd  loneliness  that  he  had 
never  felt  before  when  with  her.  "I'll  try  to  see  things 
as  you  do,  mother.  But  it  will  be  hard — 

"Go  and  sleep,"  she  said,  smiling,  and  holding  his 
hand  to  her  cheek  for  good  night.  "Go  and  sleep." 

Richard  went  away  next  day  on  the  morning  train,  but 
Dempsy  stopped  on  a  week  longer.  She  left,  expressing 
herself  as  quite  "in  love"  with  Virginia,  and  firmly  con 
vinced  that  she  had  mastered  the  accent.  Owen  took  her 
on  to  join  Sylvia  Beresford  and  Lady  Bemyss  at  the  Hot 
Springs,  and  the  day  after  they  left  Mr.  Nelson  and  Aunt 
Charlotte  returned  to  Nelson's  Gift. 

"We  three  lone  women  roam  about  this  house  'like  mice 
in  a  cathedral' — as  I  believe  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  says  that 
electrons  do  in  atoms,"  remarked  Mary,  as  the  last  car- 
riageful  of  guests  drove  off.  She  slipped  her  arm  about 
Phoebe,  who  was  standing  on  the  lowest  front  step,  where 
she  had  gone  to  give  her  father  a  last,  good-bye  kiss. 
.'Poor  little  grass-widow,"  she  said.  "You  mustn't 
look  so  forlorn.  What  can  we  do,  Sally,  to  cheer  her 
up?" 

"I'm  rather  a  broken  reed  for  cheerfulness,  myself," 
said  Sally  drily.  "I  am  going  to  the  last  resource— duty 
— for  comfort,  and  shall  write  some  letters  that  I've  long 
neglected." 

And  she  went  off  to  her  own  room. 

"What  shall  we  do,  Mouse?"  said  Mary,  feeling  a  little 
vexed  with  Sally.  She  thought  that  Phoebe  looked  very 
pale,  and  she  didn't  like  those  purplish  shadows  under  her 
eyes.  She  was  beginning  to  think  that  Phoebe 's  persistent 
idea  of  Sally's  dislike  for  her  was  not  all  imaginary. 
' '  Shall  we  walk,  or  ride,  or  have  a  game  of  tennis  ? ' ' 

"You're  so  sweet  to  me,  Cousin  Mary,"  said  Phoebe  in 
her  old,  girlish  way,  leaning  her  cheek  against  Mary 's  arm. 


WORLD'S-END  353 

"But  I  feel  so  tired,  somehow,  today.  If  you  don't  mind", 
I  think  I'll  just  go  and  lie  down  in  my  own  room  for  a 
little  while.'' 

And  she  too  slipped  off. 

Mary  stood  looking  after  her,  and  determined  to  advise 
Owen,  as  soon  as  he  returned,  to  ask  Charles  Fatten  to 
have  a  look  at  Phoebe.  "The  child's  dreadfully  run 
down,"  she  thought.  "She's  such  a  sensitive  thing, 
though — I  wonder  if  Sally's  attitude  towards  her  has  any 
thing  to  do  with  it? — What  a  dreadfully  complex  thing 
'family  life'  is.  Even  the  'holy  family'  had  its  frictions," 
she  wound  up  whimsically,  recalling  how  trying  had  been 
the  brothers  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 

Phoebe,  lying  listlessly  on  the  lounge  in  her  bedroom, 
with  the  little  lace  pillow  pressed  against  her  cheek,  was 
gazing  absently  at  the  grey,  flower-filled  cornucopias  on 
the  old  carpet,  and  wondering  how  often  she  would  be 
called  on  to  bear  the  horror  of  Richard's  presence, — 
whether,  indeed,  she  could  bear  it  at  all  any  more  without 
going  out  of  her  mind.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  head 
had  felt  very  queer  and  empty  ever  since  he  had  come. 
All  the  joy  lay  on  her  heart  like  the  withered  leaves  on 
the  autumn  paths  outside.  Only  there  was  no  gardener 
in  her  heart  to  sweep  away  these  leaves.  And  she  seemed 
to  see  her  heart,  a  little  feverish  red  ball  wrapped  in 
mouldering  leaves.  She  turned  over  and  brushed  the  hair 
from  her  face,  holding  it  back  with  both  hands  and  staring 
up  now  at  the  ceiling.  One,  two,  three, — four  flies.  She 
thought  all  the  flies  died  on  some  mysterious  date  in  Octo 
ber.  How  had  these  come  there  ?  Probably  the  warmth 
of  the  wood  fire  had  brought  them  to  life  again.  She 
counted  them  over,  then  back  again, — now  straight  across, 
now  diagonally. 

"How  stupid  my  mind  is,"  she  thought.  "It's  so  tired, 
yet  it  goes  working  over  a  silly  thing  like  counting  flies. 
Now,  if  I  told  him — if  I  got  him  to  come  here,  in  this 
room, — all  alone, — the  moment  he  comes  back — and  told 
him  everything — how  would  that  be? — It  might  be  better 
than  this  feeling  I  have  all  the  time  now — all  the  time — 
even  in  dreams.  Yes, — suppose  he  turned  me  out  of  the 
house — the  poor  baby  and  me — at  least  I  would  feel  hon 
est. — This  horrible,  slimy  feeling  of  hypocrisy  would  be 
gone.  But  then — 

"Well — you  see,"  she  said  aloud,  as  if  addressing  some- 


354  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

One.  "I  would  so  much  rather  be  dead  than  be  without 
his  love." 

The  sound  of  her  own  voice  speaking  in  the  empty  room 
gave  her  a  scared  feeling,  and,  strange  to  say,  the  feeling 
of  the  room's  not  being  empty,  but  filled  with  some  silent, 
inimical  presence. 

"It's  as  if  we  were  never  really  alone."  she  thought, 
her  heart  beating  faster.  "As  if  there  were — witnesses." 

She  turned  over  again,  and  again  fell  to  staring  at  the 
grey  cornucopias.  What  would  he  say  if  I  told  him? 
And  suddenly  her  ears  seemed  ringing  with  vile  epithets 
uttered  in  Owen's  voice.  She  lay  quite  still,  her  heart 
beating  faster  and  faster.  She  imagined  him  looking  at 
her  with  a  hard,  jeering  stare,  cool  as  glass.  She  even  im 
agined  him  striking  her. 

"Then  what  would  I  do? — I  would  get  down  close  to 
his  feet  like  a  dog — and  kiss  them — and  perhaps  he  would 
kick  me.  No,  no ! — I  am  going  crazy — I  'm  not  thinking 
my  own  thoughts — something — not  me — is  thinking  them 
in  me.  It's  that  thing  that's  in  this  room — watching  me — 
hating  me " 

She  spoke  aloud  again,  before  she  knew  it,  sitting  up 
and  holding  back  her  hair  from  her  hot  forehead  with 
both  hands. 

"AVell — you  see,"  she  said  again,  as  though  addressing 
that  invisible  thing.  "The  wages  of  sin  is  death.  But 
suppose  death  doesn't  come?  What  pays  for  sin  then?" 

Her  voice  did  not  startle  her  this  time.  "What  pays 
for  sin  then?"  she  repeated,  frowning  and  looking  at  the 
wall  before  her,  as  though  she  expected  an  answer.  She 
waited  a  moment  and  then  said,  still  aloud : 

"If  death  doesn't  come,  one  can  go  after  it,  and  fetch 
it,  and  pay  oneself — yes,  that  must  be  the  way.  Is  it  the 
way?" 

She  waited  again  as  if  for  the  answer.  It  seemed  to 
come  from  somewhere,  for  she  lay  down  again  with  a 
heavy  sigh,  murmuring: 

"ires — of  course — that's  it.  But  it's  very  difficult  to 
find  death.  It  sounds  easy  in  books — but  really  it's  very 
— very  difficult." 

Here  someone  softly  opened  the  door  (she  had  forgotten 
to  lock  it)  and  Mary  slipped  in  with  a  little  tray  on  which 
were  a  glass  of  sherry  and  bitters  and  some  delicate  sand 
wiches. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  355 

Phoebe  lay  looking  at  her,  still  with  the  little  pillow 
doubled  against  her  cheek. 

"I  couldn't — I  couldn't,  Cousin  Mary,"  she  began  mur 
muring,  shivering  with  repulsion.  But  Mary  came  and 
knelt  beside  her,  speaking  with  quiet  determination.  She 
knew  the  master-key  to  Phoebe's  will. 

"Listen,  dear,"  she  said,  "do  you  want  to  meet  Owen, 
when  he  comes  back  tomorrow,  looking  like  a  blue-and- 
white  ghost  ?  Do  you  want  to  be  sent  to  some  horrid  place 
for  your  health,  with  domineering  nurses  bullying  you 
from  morning  till  night  ? — Very  well,  then, — take  what 
I've  brought  at  once.  I've  been  watching  you.  Owen 
asked  me  to.  You  haven't  eaten  a  morsel  that  I've  seen 
for  nearly  two  days.  Come,  Phoebe, — I  assure  you  that 
Owen  and  Charles  Patton  between  them  will  certainly 
pack  you  off  to  a  sanatorium  if  they  find  you  looking  like 
this." 

Phoebe  swallowed  all  the  wine  and  ate  a  sandwich  and 
a  half  with  perfect  meekness.  Then  she  suddenly  re 
belled  and  pushed  the  plate  from  her  with  petulant  dis 
gust.  "Not  another  mouthful — not  if  they  sent  me  to 
prison,"  she  said,  half-sobbing,  half-laughing. 

Mary  put  down  the  plate,  and,  sitting  down  on  the  sofa, 
drew  her  into  her  arms  as  though  she  had  been  a  baby. 

"There — there — there,"  she  said,  rocking  her  gently. 
"Do  you  know,  Phoebe,  I  believe  all  this  is  more  mental 
than  physical.  I  believe  you've  got  something  preying  on 
your  mind.  Yes — I  believe  I  know  your  secret,  you  little 
ostrich — Phoebe!"  she  called  the  next  instant.  The  girl 
hung  limp  in  her  arms.  She  had  fainted  dead  away. 

Dreadfully  frightened,  Mary  laid  her  flat  on  the  sofa, 
and  rang  for  America  on  her  way  to  the  washstand  for  a 
wet  towel. 

Then,  as  she  knelt  by  her,  trying  to  restore  her,  she 
thought  suddenly: 

"I  wonder — I  wonder  if  it  could  be — that." 

P>ut  by  "that"  Mary  only  meant  that  she  wondered  if 
this  time  Phoebe  might  perhaps  be  going  to  bear  Owen  a 
son. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  her  on  his  return  from  the  Hot 
Springs  next  evening,  Owen  was  struck  by  the  sudden 
change  in  Phoebe,  just  as  Mary  had  been  the  day  before. 
It  was  as  if  some  deep-seated  inner  illness  had  suddenly 
sent  its  painful  sigua1  into  her  pale  face  and  heavy  eyes. 


356  WORLD  'S-END 

But  when  Mary  spoke  of  this  to  him,  and  asked  if  he  did 
not  mean  to  have  Doctor  Patton  see  her  at  once,  he  said  no, 
that  he  thought  Patton  was  not  needed  just  now,  and  this 
confirmed  Mary  in  her  own  secret  thought  of  yesterday. 

Owen,  standing  alone  over  his  study  fire,  mused  deeply 
and  painfully.  Some  way  must  be  found  out  of  this 
impasse.  He  could  not  leave  her  to  sit  alone  in  the  dark 
gaol  of  her  thoughts,  like  the  poor  wretch  in  Poe's  story  on 
whom  the  walls  closed  inch  by  inch  every  day.  Yet  how? 
— how?  In  some  way — by  some  means  he  must  manage 
to  impart  more  clearly  to  her  his  views  on  certain  ques 
tions — on  that  question  of  bodily  chastity  in  relation  to 
the  bigger  things  of  life.  In  a  general  way  she  knew  his 
opinions  on  that  subject, — knew  that  he  held  no  narrow, 
harsh  views  of  women  whom  the  world  called  ' '  disgraced ' ' 
or  "lost";  but  from  the  very  closeness  of  the  subject  to 
her  own  piteous  case  he  had  never  ventured  to  speak  more 
than  casually  on  such  topics.  Now  the  time  had  come 
when  it  would  be  a  kind  cruelty  to  wound  her  by  direct 
allusions  to  instances  of  a  like  nature,  and  by  so  doing 
clearly  and  emphatically  to  make  known  to  her  his  own 
attitude  towards  them.  Yes,  he  must  make  her  see  once 
and  for  all  that  in  his  inmost  thought  it  was  by  bad  faith 
she  had  chiefly  wronged  him, — not  by  a  fault  committed 
before  she  loved  him,  but  by  her  silence  in  regard  to  that 
fault — her  lack  of  truth  with  him.  He  felt  sure  that,  once 
he  had  expressed  himself  fully,  clearly,  strongly  in  the 
matter,  she  would  speak  out  as  he  knew  that  she  longed 
to,  and  her  heart  would  be  freed  from  the  load  which  now 
seemed  eating  into  it  like  a  cancerous  tumor  that,  long 
torpid,  has  suddenly  under  some  hidden  stimulus  renewed 
its  deadly  florescence.  She  would  see  how,  when  he  knew 
all,  he  could  still  love  and  honour  her  for  all  that  was 
love- worthy  and  honourable  in  her,  clean  forgiving  and 
forgetting  the  wrong  that  she  had  wiped  out  by  confes 
sion.  She  must  realise  that  he  was  one  who  left  the  dead 
past  to  bury  its  dead, — and  that  in  his  view  the  woman 
who  has  yielded  unwisely  to  love  has  not  by  that  one  act 
shut  herself  out  from  all  other  love  and  the  respect  of 
those  who  obey  a  larger  commandment  than  that  written 
on  the  tables  of  the  pharisaical:  "Thou  shalt  not  de 
stroy  physical  chastity,  even  by  ignorance,  for  by  so  doing 
thou  destroyest  forever  all  else  that  is  worthy  in  thee." 

Ah,  how  well  he  understood  how  it  had  all  happened 


WORLD'S-END  357 

with  her, — poor  child,  so  young,  so  undisciplined, — not 
half  sensing  where  codes  and  conventions  are  weak  and 
where  strong;  then  slowly,  as  we  all  win  our  souls,  coming 
little  by  little  to  the  knowledge,  from  within  as  well  as 
from  without,  that  bad  faith  is  at  bottom  the  crime,  the 
core  of  all  crime.  How  well  he  divined  the  sense  of  cow 
ardly  hypocrisy  that  was  gnawing  her, — the  remorse  for 
the  lie  that  she  had  acted  to  him;  and  the  fear,  the  dark, 
dreadful  fear  that  were  she  to  tell  him  now  he  would  turn 
from  her  with  scorn  and  loathing. 

No,  surely,  he  must  not  lose  more  time.  But  how  to 
come  to  this  subject  naturally, — without  bluntness?  He 
began  running  over  such  books  as  he  might  read  aloud 
to  her— "The  Heart  of  Midlothian,"  "Adam  Bede,"  "The 
Scarlet  Letter,"  "Esther  "Waters."  .  .  .  No,  none  of 
these  was  what  he  wanted.  All  at  once  he  remembered  the 
volume  of  Brieux's  plays  that  Sally  had  been  reading  that 
day  when  he  carried  the  baby  to  her  in  the  library.  He 
straightened  and  a  relieved  look  came  into  his  dark  face, 
which  had  been  so  puzzled  and  anxious.  Yes, — he  would 
read  "Maternite"  aloud  to  her  that  evening,  alone  in  her 
bedroom ;  he  would  make  her  comfortable  on  the  sofa,  and 
then,  sitting  close  to  her,  her  little  hand  (which  had  been 
growing  too  thin  of  late)  clasped  in  his  and  the  lamp 
placed  so  that  her  face  should  be  in  shadow,  he  would  read 
her  the  wonderful  drama,  and  by  his  comments  show  her 
his  inmost  heart. 

"If  I  can't  ease  that  sweet  heart  of  hers  and  bring  her 
to  confide  in  me  wholly — I'm  no  man,  but  a  straw  image," 
he  thought  grimly. 


XLIII 

nPITE  next  day  was  clear  and  mild,  though  the  blue  haze 
had  increased  till  the  mountains  looked  like  scenery  in 
a  dream. 

"Let's  go  wandering,  dear,"  said  Owen  to  Phoebe,  as 
they  stood  in  the  South  Portico,  after  luncheon,  watching 
the  gardeners  raking  up  the  short  grass  from  the  lawns 
which  had  just  been  shaven.  "You  won't  even  need  a 
hat — just  put  on  boots  and  gaiters,  so  that  we  can  go  into 
thickets  and  'brier  patches'  if  we  like — and  then  let's  ex 
plore  the  whole  farm." 


358  WORLD'S-END 

"Oh,  I'd  love  to!"  said  Phoebe,  a  timid  joy  stealing 
into  her  shadowed  eyes.  "It  always  makes  me  happy  to 
go  over  the  farm  with  you." 

She  ran  off,  and  was  back  in  ten  minutes  in  a  short 
skirt  and  stout  little  boots  and  shooting  gaiters. 

"We'll  just  stop  in  at  the  stables  on  our  way  out," 
said  Owen.  "I  want  to  have  a  look  at  that  foreleg  of 
Paternoster's." 

He  took  some  apples  from  a  basket  on  one  of  the  hall 
tables,  and  they  went  across  the  western  lawn  towards  the 
stables. 

The  mellow  October  sun  flooded  the  world  softly,  clearly, 
like  a  great,  golden  sea  whose  bed  was  the  arable  soil 
tilled  by  little  mortals.  Against  the  vague  blue  hills  and 
distances  the  autumn  woods  hung  like  an  arras  of  lovely, 
faded  tapestry,  with  now  and  then  the  more  vivid  accent 
of  some  frost-reddened  tree  spreading  the  great  posy  of  its 
branches  against  the  vaporous  azure,  just  as  those  bits  of 
ruddy  seaweed  were  spread  out  by  our  grandmothers 
against  sheets  of  bluish  cardboard. 

On  every  side  man,  tiller  of  the  soil,  was  at  his  labours. 
Here  the  great  fields  of  maize,  their  tassels  some  twelve 
and  fifteen  feet  about  the  dark  red  earth,  were  beginning 
to  go  down  beneath  the  grey  blades  of  the  corn-knives; 
there  a  spiked  team, — two  milk-white  Clydesdales  and  a 
grey, — plodded  soberly,  slanting  forward  in  the  strain  of 
ploughing — along  the  shoulder  of  a  hill  where  wrheat  had 
been  harvested  in  June.  The  rich,  share-sleeked  clods, — 
violet-brown  in  this  fat  "bottom" — fell,  slowly  turning, 
like  a  sluggish,  heavy  wave,  in  the  wake  of  the  plough. 
And  that  freshest,  sweetest,  most  mysterious  of  all  fra 
grances, — the  scent  of  newly  broken  earth,  floated  dank 
and  cool  into  the  sunlit  air. 

High  in  the  dreamy  sky  a  buzzard, — ignoblest  of  birds, 
• — noblest  of  aeronauts,  sailed  on  moveless  wings  as  though 
dozing  in  its  assured,  contemptuous  flight  above  a  world 
that  creeps  and  clambers.  And  softly,  rhythmically,  like 
the  beating  of  the  day's  heart  under  its  blue  gauzes — the 
regular  "rap-rap,  rap-rap"  of  the  apple-packers'  ham 
mers  sounded  from  the  distant  orchards. 

As  they  stood  on  the  flight  of  stone  steps,  sunk  in  the 
turf  near  the  box-hedge  that  divided  the  western  lawn 
from  the  paddocks,  they  could  see  the  little  Green-Flower, 
stained  blue  by  the  sky's  caress,  chuckling  in  its  sleep  as 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

it  drowsed  gently  to  the  sea,  bearing  with  it  gay  flotillas 
of  red  and  yellow  leaves. 

Owen  looked  from  the  lovely  scene  to  the  little  face 
beside  him.  It  was  very  rapt  and  quiet.  The  big  eyes 
seemed  searching  the  hills  for  some  answer  to  deep,  deep 
questions.  lie  put  out  his  big  hand  and  took  the  small 
one  next  him,  and  instantly  the  slight  fingers  curled  tight 
about  his  (almost  as  little  Di's  had  done  that  first  day 
when  lie  touched  them),  and  his  heart  yearned  to  her  quite 
as  a  mother's  to  her  child  in  grief.  But  neither  said 
anything.  Silent  and  hand  in  hand  they  went  on  to  the 
stables. 

"Paternoster"  was  found  standing  calmly  on  the  fever 
ish  member,  which  during  the  night  had  become  as  cool 
and  firm  as  a  well-conducted  pastern  should  be,  so  they 
bestowed  apples  right  and  left,  and  passed  on  through  the 
"old  orchard,"  now  fallen  on  senility,  with  its  quaint, 
gnarled  trees  that  bore  "Leather- Jackets"  and  "Lady 
Apples"  and  "Bel-flowers,"  and  under  whose  branches 
the  horses  were  allowed  to  regale  themselves  on  all  the 
windfalls  that  they  could  manage. 

"Shall  we  go  and  see  them  cutting  maize?"  asked  Owen, 
and  she  said:  "Yes.  Let's  do  that.  I  love  the  smell  of 
the  cut  stalks,  and  to  see  them  building  the  shocks." 

They  stood  for  some  time  talking  to  the  men  and  watch 
ing  them  at  their  work.  Being  in  among  the  tall  stalks 
was  something  like  being  in  a  jungle  of  bamboo,  and  the 
light  air,  stirring  the  broad  leaves  that  were  already  turn 
ing  brown,  made  a  soft,  incessant  rustling  like  the  sound 
of  women  passing  on  light  feet  in  gowns  of  silk. 

"I  should  think  you  might  get  lost  in  a  cornfield — • 
mightn't  you?"  asked  Phoebe,  gazing  about  her  at  the 
ranks  of  green  and  tawny  canes  growing  so  densely  and 
regularly. 

"You  could  indeed,"  he  said,  and  he  told  her  how  an 
old  slave  had  assured  him  that  a  cornfield  was  a  surer 
hiding  place  than  a  forest. 

"Ho\v  good  it  smells!"  said  Phoebe.  "And  how  fast 
they  work! — They  have  almost  built  another  shock  since 
we've  been  standing  here.  I've  always  loved  the  corn- 
shocks  in  autumn.  They  look  like  little  wigwams  standing 
about  over  the  red  fields.  It  makes  me  think  of  the  days 
when  there  were  Indians  here — friendly  Indians,  weren't 
they?" 


360  WORLD'S-END 

"Yes — fine,  friendly  tribes.  Do  you  see  that  old  silver- 
fir?" 

He  pointed  to  a  splendid  old  tree  whose  top  had  been 
torn  away,  giving  it  a  strangely  Japanese  look. 

"That  was  where  one  of  the  first  Owen  Randolphs  used 
to  sit  for  'pow- wows'  with  the  chiefs — it's  an  old  land 
mark.  'Logan's  tree,'  it's  called. — That's  Logan's  tree, 
isn't  it,  Uncle  Eben?"  he  asked,  addressing  an  old  negro. 

"Yes,  suh,  Marse  Owen,  dat's  sho'  'Logan's  tree.'  My 
great-gran 'paw  is  ben  tend  on  yo'  great-gran 'paw  whilst 
he  wuz  confabulatin'  wid  ole  Logan  hisse'f  onder  dat 
ve'y  tree." 

"And  now,"  said  Phoebe  as  if  to  herself,  "the  tree  is 
just  the  same — but  they  are  changed.  .  .  .  They  are  dust 
now — but  the  tree  is  green  and  strong  as  ever." 

"No  sad  thoughts,  please,"  said  Owen,  drawing  her 
hand  through  his  arm. 

"Indeed,  indeed,  I  wasn't  sad,"  she  exclaimed  eagerly. 
"I  was  only  thinking  how  it  all  ends  that  way — every 
thing — in  quiet — in  rest 

' '  Well,  do  you  consider  that  a  very  cheerful  reflection  ? ' ' 
he  asked,  smiling. 

She  still  gazed  earnestly  and  wistfully  at  the  dark,  tran 
quil  tree,  out  of  whose  quiet  branches  a  bird  had  just 
flown. 

"Rest  is  such  a  beautiful  thought,"  she  said  softly. 

"Isn't  joy  as  beautiful?" 

She  gave  a  little  start  and  coloured  slightly. 

"Yes — it's  all  beautiful,"  she  murmured. 

They  took  a  path  across  the  fields  towards  the  New 
Orchard,  as  Owen  wanted  to  speak  to  Downer. 

The  brambles  grew  very  thick  near  a  bit  of  quagmire 
beyond  which  ran  Logan's  Creek,  and  he  went  ahead  to 
hold  back  the  long,  thorn-armed  sprays  for  her. 

Looking  at  his  tall  figure  in  its  old  shooting  breeches 
and  light  cotton  shirt  that  disclosed  the  splendid  muscles 
with  every  movement,  Phoebe 's  heart  swelled  with  love  and 
pride  and  bitter  pain.  She  thought: 

' '  If  he  knew — if  he  knew — he  would  not  trouble  to  hold 
back  the  briers  for  me." 

An  absurd  idea  intruded  itself,  as  so  often  happens  in 
our  moments  of  keenest  misery.  She  gave  a  little  invol 
untary  bitter  laugh. — It  was  so  unlike  her  usual  laughter 
that  Owen  turned. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  361 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked.     "Can't  I  share  the  fun?" 

But  the  look  in  her  eyes  worried  him,  and  all  at  once 
the  thought  of  that  day  when  he  had  overtaken  her  on 
her  way  to  Thunder  Mountain  gripped  his  heart. 

"This  must  stop,"  he  thought.  "I  can't  have  her  suf 
fer  like  this.  God  knows  what  she  might  do." 

"Well?"  he  said  aloud,  "what  was  your  joke,  dear?" 

She  looked  half  shy,  half  reckless. 

"I  was  just  thinking  that  if  I  were  to  be  very  wicked 
you  wouldn't  hold  hack  the  briers  for  me — you  would 
'teach'  me  with  them,  as  Gideon  taught  the  men  of  Suc- 
coth.  Don't  you  remember? — Gideon  went  out  and  got 
him  briers,  and  with  them  he  taught  the  men  of  Suc- 
coth." 

Owen  laughed  with  her. 

"I  daresay  all  that  Gideon  taught  them  was  a  proper 
fear  of  Gideon.  I  don't  believe  one  can  teach  much  more 
than  that  with  briers." 

Phoebe  walked  behind  him  in  silence  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  Then  she  said  in  her  low  voice:  "But  you 
think  wickedness  ought  to  be  punished,  don't  you?" 

He  answered  over  his  shoulder,  without  looking  at  her: 

"There's  so  little  wickedness — it's  nearly  all  ignorance. 
In  fact,  it's  all  ignorance,  in  my  philosophy." 

The  low  voice  came  again  after  a  moment  or  two : 

"But  you  would  punish  bad  ignorance,  wouldn't  you?" 

"I  wouldn't  'punish'  anything.  I'd  help  it  to  see  bet 
ter  if  I  could." 

Silence  again  for  a  little.  Then  the  voice  grew  lower 
than  ever,  almost  inaudible : 

"Don't  you  think  King  Arthur — in  Tennyson's  poem — 
was  too  good  to — to  Guinevere?  Men  aren't  really  ever 
like  that,  are  they?" 

He  laughed  out,  walking  steadily  on  in  front  of  her 
along  the  narrow,  bramble-set  path. 

"Too  good! — I  think  he  was  a  bally  prig!  The  most 
sugary,  conceited  ass  that  ever  wore  a  helmet!" 

He  heard  a  sharp  little  gasp  behind  him. 

"I — I  don't  know  exactly  what  you  mean,"  she  faltered. 

Now  he  turned  round. 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  said  in  a  matter  of  fact  voice,  "just 
think  the  thing  over  for  yourself.  Have  you  read  the 
'Idyls'  lately? — No?  But  you  remember  them  clearly 
enough,  I  dare  say.  Well,  then  just  do  me  the  favour 


362  WORLD'S-END 

of  running  over  Arthur's  noble  behaviour  in  your  mind. 
Firstly—  (He  began  marking  off  the  points  against 

the  blameless  king  on  his  strong  fingers,  which  she  gazed 
at  as  though  fascinated.)  "Firstly — if  he'd  had  a  ray  of 
'gumption'  he'd  have  seen  for  himself  how  things  were 
with  his  wife  and  Launcelot.  Secondly — when  he  did  see 
(if  he  was  so  jolly  noble  and  unselfish),  he  might  have 
managed  to  arrange  things  so  as  to  set  them  both  free. 
Thirdly, — as  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  do  that, — ho 
might  at  least  have  spared  her  that  hifalutin'  interview  in 
the  convent.  Think  of  the  picture  of  that  sanctimonious 
prig,  standing  there  in  full  armour, — while  the  poor  woman 
grovelled  at  his  feet, — and  holding  forth  about  her 
golden  hair  'now  lying  in  the  dust,'  and  about  how  in 
heaven  she  \vould  come  to  her  senses  and  love  him 
(why,  pray?),  'not  Launcelot  nor  another!'  .  .  .  You 
can't  really  admire  that  royal  he-prude,  Phoebe.  You 
don't  really  think  he  wras  'too  good'  to  poor  Guinevere, 
do  you?" 

Phoebe  had  stood  through  this,  her  colour  changing 
from  white  to  red,  from  red  to  white.  It  was  so  wildly, 
improbably  strange  to  hear  Owen  thus  defending  the  royal 
adulteress  against  her  spotless  husband. 

"But — but "  she  stammered  finally,  "but  she  was 

wicked,  Owen. — She  deceived  him — she  deceived  her  hus 
band." 

"Not  in  the  vulgar,  every  day  sense,  Phoebe.  She  had 
been  married  by  proxy  to  Launcelot  when  she  was  a 
young,  ignorant  girl.  He  was  the  most  famous  knight  at 
Arthur's  table.  Night  after  night,  during  that  long,  false 
bridal  journey,  they  lay  side  by  side  with  his  bare  sword 
between  them.  But  swords  can't  divide  hearts  and 
thoughts. ' ' 

He  took  a  step  towards  her  in  the  narrow  path,  and, 
framing  her  face  in  his  hands,  raised  it  so  that  he  could 
look  into  her  eyes.  "Tell  me,  Phoebe,"  he  said  softly, 
' '  do  you  think  that  a  naked  sword  between  us  on  our  bridal 
bed  would  have  kept  our  hearts  apart?" 

Her  eyes  quickened  under  his. 

"No "  she  whispered. 

He  held  her  to  him  an  instant,  then  released  her. 

"And  you  may  be  very  sure  of  this,"  he  continued, 
resuming  his  walk  ahead  of  her,  "that,  no  matter  what 
you  had  done,  I  shouldn't  let  you  crawl  about  the  floor 


WORLD'S-END  363 

while  I  preached  to  you  from  the  heights  of  my  self- 
righteousness." 

Phoebe  walked  behind  him  dumbly,  her  thoughts  all  in 
a  bright,  confused  tangle  like  the  parti-coloured  ribbons 
that  issue  from  a  juggler's  mouth.  She  was  too  bewil 
dered  to  take  real  comfort  from  his  words,  yet  there  was  a 
balm  in  them  that  soothed  that  steady,  bitter  pain  in  her 
heart.  And  presently,  out  of  the  bewildering,  snarled 
brightness  of  these  thoughts  came  one, — clear  and  golden, 
—a  ray  of  hope  piercing  her  darkness  like  a  magic  blade. 

He  had  found  excuses  for  Guinevere !  Maybe — maybe 

But  no.  It  was  impossible.  He  could  judge  Guinevere 
with  leniency  because  she  was  so  far  apart  from  him, — but 
for  his  own  wife,— the  woman  who  slept  on  his  heart, — 

who  might  some  day  bear  his  son He  would  not  be 

human  if  he  did  not  have  for  her  another  judgment.  And 
then,  besides,  the  child — the  child  that  he  thought  his! — 
No,  Guinevere  had  not  been  as  false  as  she,  Phoebe,  had 
been.  She  had  not  gone  to  the  king  soiled  and  stained, 
letting  him  believe  her  pure, — letting  him  fey  marriage 
with  her  assume  the  fatherhood  of  a  child  not  his.  There 
it  was— the  unforgivable,  the  inexpiable, — the  awful  false 
ness  on  which  she  had  reared  her  brittle  palace  of  joy. 
"What  had  she  and  joy  to  do  with  each  other?  She  had 
snatched  at  the  cloak  of  what  she  thought  passing  happi 
ness,  and  it  had  come  away  in  her  selfish,  feverish  grasp, 
disclosing  the  stark  figure  of  vain  remorse  barring  her 
way. 

Suddenly  Owen  sprang  aside  and  pressed  in  among  the 
twigs  of  a  thicket  near  the  creek  which  they  had  now 
reached.  She  followed  him  to  the  edge  of  the  tangle, 
wondering  what  it  was  that  he  had  seen. 

"When  he  came  back,  from  between  his  big  fingers,  care 
fully  hollowed,  there  peeped  the  sleek,  tiny  head  of  a  field- 
sparrow,  with  its  scared  eyes  so  like  blackberry  seeds. 

Owen  opened  his  fingers  slightly  and  showed  her  one 
little  chafed  claw. 

"It  was  caught  in  a  forked  twig,"  he  said.  "If 
I  hadn't  happened  to  see  it,  it  would  have  starved  to 
death." 

"Oh,"  said  Phoebe,  her  eyes  suddenly  full  of  tears, 
"how  kind,  how  kind  you  are  to  everything!" 

Owen  smiled  at  her  over  the  bird's  timid,  bright-eyed 
head.  "You  talk  of  Guinevere's  'wickedness,'  "  said  he. 


364  WORLD'S-END 

"This  poor  little  mite  was  'wicked'  enough  to  get  itself 
caught  in  a  forked  twig.  All  young  things  who  'go 
wrong,'  as  they  say,  are  just  birds  in  forked  twigs."  He 
opened  his  hand,  lifting  it  towards  the  sky  with  the  little 
fluff  of  feathers  quivering  on  it. — An  instant's  doubting 
pause, — then,  like  a  shot  from  a  magic  sling,  away  .  .  . 
out  ...  up  sped  the  tiny  life. 

They  entered  the  orchard  by  the  southwest  gate,  and 
walked  towards  the  sound  of  hammering  along  aisles  of 
trees  already  stripped  for  the  market.  And  these  young 
trees,  so  vigorous  and  symmetrical,  on  which,  only  here 
and  there,  hung  a  small,  reddish  fruit  too  inferior  to  be 
worth  gathering,  seemed  very  sad  to  Phoebe.  Patient 
dryads,  they  looked  to  her,  from  whom  all  their  rosy  off 
spring  had  been  taken  away. 

"It  was  so  gay  and  cheerful  in  here  a  week  ago,"  she 
said,  "and  now  the  poor  trees  look  so  sad  in  their  dark 
green  dresses  with  all  the  apples  gone." 

Owen  stopped  and  took  a  graceful  bough  in  his  hand. 
"Yes,"  he  answered,  "but  think  of  the  magic  secret  that 
each  of  these  bare  twigs  knows.  Thousands  of  blossoms 
hidden  here, — thousands  more  of  apples.  .  .  .  We  shall 
be  here  next  spring,  please  providence, — and  you  will  see 
these  sober  things  in  bloom — each  a  tent  worthy  of  Peri- 
banou  and  her  lover." 

But  in  Phoebe's  heart  was  the  sick  thought:  "Can  I 
stand  it  till  the  spring?  This  pain,  all  the  time — all  the 
time?" 

"It  must  be  wonderful,"  she  said  aloud.  "I'd  love  to 
see  them.  But  all  these."  She  stooped  and  picked  up 
an  apple  from  the  pile  of  discards  near  which  they  stood. 
"They  look  so  fresh  and  sound.  It  seems  such  a  waste  to 
leave  them." 

"Look  carefully,"  he  said.  "No  matter  how  sound 
they  seem,  they  have  each  their  secret,  too — a  dark  little 
secret  this  time." 

"How?"  she  asked,  turning  the  glossy,  scarlet  fruit  in 
her  hands  and  gazing  at  it. 

He  took  the  apple  from  her  and  showed  her  a  tiny  dark 
speck  near  the  stem. 

"It's  only  a  speck,"  he  said,  "but  it  goes  to  the  core. 
Wait— I'll  show  you." 

He  twisted  the  apple  in  two  with  a  turn  of  his  strong 
wrists.  "There! — you  see!"  he  said. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  365 

And  Phoebe  saw  that  the  one  black  speck  ran  in  a  little 
groove  to  the  heart  of  the  fruit. 

"Just  one  cheeky  worm,"  he  smiled,  throwing1  away  the 
halves,  "and  the  whole  fruit's  good  for  nothing  but 
pigs  or  bulk." 

The  blood  rushed  suddenly  into  her  face. 

' '  But  all  the  rest  was  good ! ' '  she  cried  passionately. 
"Why  do  you  throw  it  in  the  dirt?" 

She  stood  gazing  at  the  broken  fruit,  now  smeared  with 
red  dust,  and  her  dark  eyes  had  a  pained,  almost  angry, 
protest  in  them.  He  knew  so  well  what  she  was  thinking! 
He  raged  inwardly  at  his  cruel,  momentary  forgetfulness. 

"Of  course  the  rest  was  good,"  he  said  lightly.  "It's 
only  that  for  the  winter  market  they  don't  keep  when 
they're  like  that.  Apple  merchants  ask  far  more  than 
philosophers.  They  won't  be  satisfied  with  anything  short 
of  perfection." 

"It  seems  cruel  somehow,"  she  said  sadly,  all  pale  and 
listless  again.  "But  of  course  they're  right — it  went  to 
the  heart.- — If  it  had  only  been  on  the  outside " 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  as  they  went  on.  "You 
mustn't  talk  so  wofully,  as  if  apples  were  human  beings," 
he  said,  smiling.  "Sometimes  a  worm  at  that  strange 
thing,  the  human  heart,  only  sweetens  it.  I  can't  imagine 
a  more  deadly  companion  than  a  flawless  human  being, 
dear  woebegone." 

"But  just  faults  are  different  from  a  black  spot  in  the 
heart " 

"Even  that  apple  didn't  have  a  black  spot  in  its  heart, 
Phoebe.  Downer  and  I  are  far  too  proud  to  allow  that 
to  happen.  That  worm  just  took  his  selfish  fill  from  one 
tiny  corner.  A  black  spot  at  the  heart  would  come  from 
some  disease  of  the  apple  itself,  and  we  don't  have  that 
kind  at  AVorld's-End." 

"But  you  threw  it  in  the  dirt." 

"I  did  it  without  thinking." 

"Yes — just  naturally.  It  was  blemished — men  don't 
like  blemished  things." 

"Your  knowledge  of  men  is  of  course  beyond  question," 
laughed  Owen. 

"I  know  that  much,"  she  said  with   dreary  obstinacy. 

"What  you  might  call  'blemished'  women  have  been 
loved  more  perhaps  than  any  others." 

"How  could  that  be?" 


366  WORLD'S-END 

"Because,  as  a  rule,  they  have  the  most  lovable  natures 
and  the  warmest  hearts.  Despite  your  coek-sureness,  I 
doubt  if  your  knowledge  of  men  is  as  profound  as  you 
think,  little  cynic.  A  real  man — what  a  man  would  call  a 
man — puts  warm-heartedness  and  generosity  and  general 
charm  far  above  other  things." 

"What  other  things?'  she  asked,  her  voice  sinking. 

He  laughed  softly. 

"Why,  conventional  piety,  and  housekeeping,  and 
strong-mindedness,  and  literary  ability,  and  yes — and  even 
bodily  chastity.  A  real  man  had  far  rather  take  a  gen 
erous,  impulsive,  warm-blooded,  free-lance  to  wife  than  an 
immaculate  but  mean-natured  virgin." 

Phoebe  could  not  feel  the  soft  earth  of  the  orchard 
under  her  feet  for  a  few  paces.  She  tried  to  speak,  and 
swallowed  nervously. 

Then  she  said,  her  heart  racing: 

"You  mean  if — if — he  knew  it  and  chose  to  do  it. — But 
— suppose ' ' 

That  nervous  swallowing  seized  her  again.  She  man 
aged  to  finish  her  sentence. 

"Suppose — he  found  it  out — afterward?" 

Owen  gave  that  soft  laugh  again. 

"From  your  awe-stricken  tone,"  he  said,  "I  suppose 
that  you  fancy  him  slaying  her,  or  crying  'Avaunt,  wan 
ton  ! '  in  a  terrible  voice,  and  turning  on  his  superior  heel 
to  leave  her  forever  to  remorse." 

Phoebe  walked  on  blindly  for  another  moment,  clinging 
to  his  arm,  through  which  he  had  drawn  her  hand. 

Then  she  faltered. 

"Well— what  would  he  do?" 

"If  he  were  a  real  man,"  said  Owen,  striking  with  his 
stick  at  the  drooping  boughs,  "I  should  think  he'd  be  so 
devilish  sorry  for  her, — that  he'd  probably  love  her  all  the 
more  to  make  up  to  her  for  all  she  'd  suffered. ' ' 

"Oh! — It's  turning  black!"  cried  Phoebe,  and  she  fell 
against  him,  grasping  with  her  other  hand. 

He  sat  down  on  the  warm,  dry  earth,  and  laid  her  with 
her  head  upon  his  knees.  When  he  saw  that  she  had  re 
covered,  and  was  not  going  to  faint,  he  said : 

"You  know,  Phoebe — Mary's  been  telling  tales  on  you. 
It  seems  that  you  don't  eat  enough  to  maintain  a  mos 
quito.  Now,  while  I've  got  you  so  entirely  at  my  mercy, 
you've  got  to  promise  me  something.  Either  you  promise 


WORLD'S-END  367 

that  from  this  time  forward  you'll  eat  properly,  or  I 
'phone  for  Charles  Patton  as  soon  as  we  get  back  to  the 
house." 

"Oh,  I  promse — I  do  promise,"  she  said.  He  pulled 
her  up  into  his  arms,  holding  her  jealously. 

"You  little  imp!"  he  said  brokenly,  "to  dare  go  fret 
ting  over  things  you  won't  tell  me  of — you  wicked  child! — 
Don't  you  know  me  yet?" 

A  wild  impulse  leaped  in  Phoebe.  It  was  almost  like 
the  leap  of  a  quickening  child  within  her. 

'Til  tell  him  now, ' '  she  thought.  ' ' Yes— now !  No !— 
I  can't — I  can't!  lie  thinks  he'd  forgive — but  he  doesn't 
know  really — he  can't  know " 

And,  in  a  passion  of  pain  and  love  and  remorse,  she 
clung  to  him  and  returned  his  caresses  with  wild  ardour. 

Owen  thought: 

"Almost — almost  she  was  going  to  tell  me  then " 

"When  he  helped  her  to  her  feet  there  was  a  soft  colour 
in  her  face  and  her  eyes  were  like  blue  stars. 

They  came  at  last  upon  the  still  joyous  scene  of  the 
apple-packing.  Here  the  trees  were  still  laden  with  gleam 
ing  fruit,  and  the  gatherers  in  their  blue  overalls  hurried 
to  and  fro  with  the  white,  split  baskets  heaped  writh  scarlet 
balls. 

The  head-man  told  them  that  Downer  had  just  gone  to 
the  mill-stables,  so  they  turned  in  that  direction.  Some 
young  mules,  with  gentle,  foolish  faces  and  eyes  blacked 
round  the  edges  like  a  professional  beauty's,  came  crowd 
ing  about  them  as  they  crossed  the  pasture. 

"What  lovely  little  feet  they've  got!"  said  Phoebe  hap 
pily.  "I  wonder  if  they  like  apples!"  Her  heart  felt  so 
light  that  these  young  mules  with  their  plushy,  bitumen- 
black  coats  and  long  black  and  tan  faces  seemed  to  her 
the  most  exchanting  creatures.  All  the  animals  under 
George  Downer's  care  were  as  tame  as  household  pets,  and 
the  mule  colts,  all  fuzzy  and  sleek  at  the  same  time, 
nuzzled  arid  pressed  about  her  for  the  apples  with  which 
she  had  filled  the  pockets  of  her  coat. 

As  they  reached  the  mill  some  piglings  were  being  fed 
in  a  little  trough  outside  the  general  feeding-pen,  and 
again  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never  realised  what 
adorable  creatures  were  the  young  of  swine. 

She  caught  Owen's  arm  and  laughed  with  glee  over 
their  greedy  antics  until  tears  hung  on  her  thick,  short 


368  WORLD'S-END 

lashes.  One  piggy,  the  "runt,"  unable  to  reach  the  mush 
in  the  trough  as  easily  as  the  others,  balanced  on  his  fat 
stomach  with  his  tiny  hams  and  hind  feet  hanging  like 
tassels  in  the  air.  And  they  snuffled,  and  guzzled,  and 
choked,  and  bit  at  one  another,  squealing  until  they  were 
all  splashed  with  buttermilk,  which  clung  whitely  to  their 
long  eyelashes  and  eagerly  flapping  ears. 

"I  must  see  the  mother  of  these  darlings!"  she  said, 
and  Downer  introduced  her  to  the  preposterous  "Desde- 
mona,"  whose  lord,  "Othello,"  enjoyed  the  dignity  of  a 
mansion,  with  glass  windows  and  a  paddock,  all  to  him 
self.  She  leaned  over  the  fence,  and  scratched  the  back 
of  the  Berkshire  matron  with  a  stick  that  Downer  handed 
her,  and  the  huge  sow,  pleasedly  moving  her  thick  hide, 
looked  up  at  her  out  of  her  strangely  human  eyes,  set 
with  inch-long  lashes. 

"Owen!  Come  and  see!  She  looks  at  me  as  if  she 
understood  things!  I  thought  pigs  had  ugly  little  eyes. 
I  never  looked  at  one  so  close  before.  Her  eyes  are  a 
lovely  brown, — and  the  whites  show  on  both  sides  like 
people's  eyes.  And  what  eyelashes!  Owen!  It  makes 
me  feel  queer  the  way  she  looks  at  me." 

They  went  together  to  the  paddock  of  the  thoroughbred 
stallion,  "Coxcomb."  Owen  whistled,  and  he  came  slant 
ing  towards  them  in  a  splendid  curve,  tail  floating  out  like 
a  slim  plume  of  brown  thistle-down. 

"Why,  he's  gentle  as  a  dog!"  she  cried,  caressing  the 
ruby-lined  nostrils,  soft  as  bats'  wings.  "I  believe  he'd 
let  me  kiss  him." 

And  she  touched  her  lips  to  the  delicate  muzzle.  ' '  Cox 
comb"  sneezed  in  acknowledgment  of  this  compliment, 
and  covered  her  with  speckles  of  white. 

Then  Downer  led  the  way  to  where  the  giant  Clydesdale, 
— "Clyde's  King,"  moved  at  a  majestic,  clumpering  walk 
along  the  fence  of  his  kingdom.  His  huge  neck,  clothed 
in  its  wavy,  parted  mane,  was  thrust  towards  them  like  an 
Albrecht  Diirer  drawing  of  a  medieval  war-steed.  The 
great,  dark  globes  of  his  eyes  looked  mildly  inquiring,  and 
he  seemed  to  smile  ingratiatingly,  wrinkling  up  his  square 
lip  from  his  big,  stained  teeth. 

"He's  asking  for  an  apple,"  said  Owen,  and  she  offered 
him  one,  drawing  back  her  hand  rather  quickly  as  the 
rubbery  lips  "happed"  down  on  her  palm,  securing  the 
apple. 


WORLD'S-END  369 

Then  the  Standard-bred  "Emperor"  and  the  "Jack," 
"Blue  Thunder"  were  visited,  and  Downer  called  up  the 
Southdowns  for  them,  and  pointed  out  the  young  cattle 
grazing  in  the  mountain  pasture. 

"It's  nice  being  so  near  them  all,"  Phoebe  said  as  they 
turned  away.  "I've  got  such  a  new  happy  feeling,  as  if 
I'd  just  realised  that  I'm  a  little  animal  too,  and  that  it's 
good  to  be  an  animal " 

"Dear  little  animal!"  said  Owen,  laughing. 

lie  was  so  rejoiced  to  see  that  he  had  been  able  to  lift 
the  pressure  of  pain  from  her  heart  that  the  full,  simple 
life  throbbing  all  about  them  seemed  peculiarly  magnetic 
and  akin  to  him  also. 

"And  this  evening, — when  I've  read  that  play  to  her," 
he  thought,  "she'll  realise  still  more  how  I  feel,  and  that 
she.  needn't  scorch  her  dear  heart  night  and  day  because 
of  me — and — yes,  perhaps  she  will  tell  me — and  together 
we  will  put  the  past  away — forever." 


XLIV 

VEX  sat.  by  the  sofa  in  Phoebe's  bedroom,  with  her 
hand  in  his,  reading  Brieux's  great  play  to  her  as  he 
had  planned  that  afternoon. 

The  night  was  so  mild  that,  though  there  was  a  fire  on 
the  hearth,  both  windows  stood  open,  with  the  shutters 
thrown  back,  and,  from  where  she  lay,  Phoebe  could  see 
the  pricking  of  the  stars  through  the  moths '-down  dark, 
and  hear  the  dry  seething  of  the  yellow  poplar  leaves  in  the 
soft  wild  wind  that  came  passionately  sighing  and  fainting 
out  of  the  west, 

From  a  shrub  just  under  her  window  rose  the  sweet, 
feeble  trilling  of  some  belated  insect,  bidding  the  summer 
farewell,  and  there  was  a  springlike  piping  of  frogs  from 
a  far  meadow. 

She  lay  quite  still,  her  eyes  on  the  windy  darkness  and 
the  little  gold  blur  of  the  Pleiades,  seen  now  and  then 
as  the  leaves  were  blown  apart. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  act  he  laid  the  book  face  down 
on  his  knee  and  said : 

"Isn't  that  a  marvellous,  heart-breaking  thing? — I  won't 
read  you  the  last  act.  It's  fine  in  its  way,  but  somehow 


370  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

one  feels  that  it's  there  to  prove  things — written  for  a 
purpose  outside  the  tragic  humanness  of  the  rest.  Brieux 
is  making  some  big  points  in  it,  but  the  great  throb  of  the 
drama  has  stopped." 

' '  How  does  it  end  ? ' '  she  asked  in  her  most  muted  voice. 
"Does  she  die?" 

"Yes— poor  little  soul." 

"Does  .  .  .  does  she  kill  herself?" 

"No.  She  dies  from  malpractice.  I  suppose  her  sister 
tried  to  save  her  from  having  a  child." 

The  wind  spent  itself  for  the  time  being  in  a  great 
breath  like  a  love-sigh,  and  in  the  stillness  that  followed 
the  fluting  of  the  lonely  cricket  rose  faint  and  pathetic. 

"I  am  glad  she  died,"  said  Phoebe,  and  her  voice  too 
was  pathetic  and  very  faint. 

"But  what  a  horrible,  useless  thing  it  all  was,"  he  an» 
swered.  "One  real  man  with  a  heart  in  his  body  could 
have  saved  them  all.  That's  where  the  tragedy  comes 
home  to  me,  darling." 

"Could  have  saved  them?" 

He  played  with  his  mother's  ring  on  her  hand.  "Why, 
of  course,  darling.  If  that  brute  of  a  brother-in-law  had 
been  half  a  man  even,  don't  you  see  how  he  could  have 
sheltered  and  comforted  that  poor  child  and  his  wife?  It 
makes  one's  blood  boil,  because,  though  Brieux  has  put 
it  into  this  masterpiece,  it  happens  all  the  time  in  real  life." 

"You  would  have  saved  her." 

She  did  not  put  this  as  a  question,  but  stated  it  as  a 
fact. 

"Yes  .  .  .  you  would  have  saved  her.  But  you  couldn't 
have  saved  her  from  herself." 

"How  do  you  mean,  dear.  .  .  .  'Couldn't  have  saved 
her  from  herself?" 

"From  the  pain  and  the  shame  and  the  long,  long  mis 
ery,"  said  the  muted  voice. 

He  lifted  the  hand,  which  had  grown  so  cold  in  his  as 
he  read  on,  and  kissed  it  and  the  ring. 

"I  hope  that  I'd  have  had  the  power  to  save  her  even 
from  that,"  he  said. 

"But  how  could  you?     How  could  anyone?" 

He  laid  the  little  hand  on  his  knee,  and  stroked  and 
played  with  it  as  though  it  were  a  flower. 

"Do  you  know,  Phoebe,"  he  said,  "I've  a  notion  that 
you've  got  rather  a  Pietist  way  of  looking  at  such  ques- 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  371 

tions.  I've  noticed  it  several  times.  And  I  don't  like  to 
think  that  there's  even  one  vital  point  that  we  don't  per 
fectly  agree  on." 

He  heard  her  take  in  her  breath  softly,  cautiously. 
"How  don't  we  agree?"  she  said. 

"AVhy,  you  spoke  as  if  that  poor  girl  in  the  play  would 
have  had  to  go  on  being  ashamed  and  wretched,  no  matter 
what  happened.  You  said  it  just  as  if  it  were  a  matter 
of  course.  Or  did  you  mean  that?" 

"Yes  ...  I  meant  it." 

"But  darling  .  .  .  forgive  me, — but  that's  such  poppy 
cock!"  he  said. 

"Oh,  Owen!" 

"Such  out-of-date,  Puritanical  twaddle,  my  sweet  dear. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  that  poor  child"  (he  caught 
his  own  breath  imperceptibly  before  going  on),  "just 
because  in  her  young,  ignorant  love, — thinking  no  evil, 
— she  became  the  prey  of  a  scoundrel, — do  you  really 
mean  that  you  would  have  her  suffer  and  be  ashamed  all 
the  rest  of  her  life?" 

"No,  no  ...  I  wouldn't  want  her  to.  She  .  .  .  she 
just  couldn't  help  it." 

"If  7  had  been  her  brother  she  could  have  helped  it. 
I  would  have  made  her  see  things  as  they  are,  not  as 
prudes  and  prigs  and  puritans  say  they  are." 

"Yes  .  .  .  but.  .  .  .   ' 

"But  what?" 

"A  ...  a  ...  'brother  .  .  .  might.  No,  even  a  brother 
couldn't!  Oh,  don't  you  see?  ...  ' 

She  raised  herself  on  one  arm  now,  pushing  back  her 
heavy  hair. 

"Don't  you  see?  ...  it  ...  it  ...  wouldn't  be  what 
others  thought.  ...  It  would  be  her  own  thoughts  .  .  . 
her  thoughts  about  herself." 

"And  what  do  you  think  these  thoughts  would  be?" 

The  answer  came  quick  and  passionate. 

"She  would  hate  herself  .  .  .  she  would  feel  that  all 
the  seas  couldn't  wash  her  clean." 

Owen  pushed  aside  the  little  table  that  held  the  lamp, 
and,  coining  close,  drew  her  head  upon  his  breast. 

"Darling,  you  exaggerate  dreadfully,"  he  said.  "In 
the  first  place,  true  chastity  is  really  a  thing  of  the 
spirit.  The  body  may  make  a  mistake  and  the  spirit  may 
chafe  and  be  wretched, — but  it's  absurd  and  unreasonable 


372  WORLD'S-END 

to  consider  that  a  girl  who  has  erred  through  love  is  a 
polluted  being.  She's  an  unfortunate  being  as  the  world 
wags  now, — but  she's  far  and  away  a  higher  being  than 
the  woman  who  marries  for  convenience  or  money.  She's 
stars  above  the  woman  who  for  prudential  reasons  gives 
herself  to  the  embraces  of  a  husband  that  she  dislikes 
or  despises." 

He  could  feel  the  violent  beating  of  her  heart  through 
the  arm  over  which  his  hand  was  clasped.  "She  .  .  . 
you  're  talking  of  a  girl  in  a  book, ' '  came  the  low  murmur. 

"I'm  talking  of  every  girl  who  ever  has  lived,  or  does 
live  or  will  live,"  he  said,  kissing  her  hair. 

She  lay  quite  silent.     Then  she  said: 

"You  wouldn't  talk  so  ...  if  ...  if  it  was  .  .  . 
me." 

"And  why  not,  you  ungrammatical  darling?  You  don't 
know  me  quite.  Suppose  you  were  suddenly  to  tell  me 
that  you  had  had  a  lover  ...  (he  held  his  breath  again) 
...  a  child  even.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  that  would  change 
my  love  ? — Don 't  you  think,  knowing  you  as  I  do  ...  the 
woman  who  has  slept  on  my  heart  now  for  half  a  year 
.  .  .  don't  you  think  I  know  you  well  enough  to  know 
that  such  a  thing  could  not  have  befallen  you  except 
through  love? — And  don't  you  know  that  to  fall  through 
love  is  not  to  commit  a  crime,  but, — as  the  world  goes  now, 
— to  make  a  bitter  mistake?  Don't  you  know  that  mother 
hood  in  itself  is  a  sacred  thing? — Can  you  really  think 
for  a  moment, — knowing  me  as  only  a  woman  knows  the 
man  who  is  her  mate, — can  you  think  I  would  judge  you  ? 
Condemn  you?" 

Suddenly  she  wrenched  herself  free  and  slipped  to 
her  knees  before  him,  grasping  his  arms  with  both  hands. 
She  hung  there  from  his  shoulders  like  the  figure  in  the 
old  print  clinging  to  a  stone  cross  in  a  stormy  sea.  Her 
eyes  blazed  on  his,  her  lips  were  parted. 

"Oh,  I  will  tell  you!  ...  I  will  tell  you!"  she  cried, 
her  bosom  struggling  against  his  knees  for  breath.  "I 
will  .  .  .  tell  you  ..."  she  panted  on  a  lower  note.  And 
now  she  hung  heavily  from  her  clutching  hands  and  her 
breath  came  quick.  "I  will  .  .  .  tell  .  .  .  you.  .  .  .  ' 

"What,  my  darling?  What  will  you  tell  me?"  he  said, 
his  arms  about  her. 

And  he  thought: 

"Now  .  .  .  now  she  is  going  to  tell  me  ...  at  last! 


WORLD'S-END  373 

And  I  will  stop  her  after  the  first  words, — and  tell  her 
that  I've  always  known  .  .  .  and  that  she  need  never 
see  Richard's  scoundrel  face  again.  .  .  .  Now  .  .  . 
now. 

To  her  he  said  again: 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  tell  me,  my  dear  darling?" 

But  her  eyes,  still  gazing  at  him,  changed ; — the  fire 
died  down  in  them.  She  turned  piteously  pale,  and  slowly, 
thickly  she  faltered : 

"...  That  I  love  you  .  .  .  that  I  love  you  more  than 
God." 

Then  her  head  drooped  forward  against  him.  He  felt 
her  shaking  with  great  sohs. 

"I  ...  I  ...  am  just  sorry  .  .  .  for  the  poor  girl 
...  in  the  play  ..."  she  whispered  through  that  pite 
ous  sobbing, 

October  passed  on  its  swaggering,  golden  way.  No 
vember  came  and  went,  with  its  pale  crown  of  Indian  sum 
mer  and  veil  of  wood-smoke  from  forest-fires,  through 
which  peered  a  sun  coloured  like  a  Jacqueminot  rose. 

December  rushed  on  World 's-End,  frost-nipped  and 
cheery,  with  the  "weather-glim"  of  icy-gold  and  violet 
belted  about  its  round  horizon,  and  the  sound  of  axes 
ringing  from  the  mountain  woods. 

And  this  long  chaplet  of  wonderful,  vivid  days,  (never 
had  there  been  such  an  autumn  and  early  winter  said 
the  old  folk) — this  jewelled  rosary  of  time,  Phoebe  told 
with  the  feverish  fervour  of  a  nun,  whose  convent  may 
be  sacked  by  nightfall, — telling  her  heaven-ensuring 
beads.  For  it  had  been  understood  early  in  November 
that  Richard  could  not  come  again  to  World 's-End  until 
Christmas,  and  then  only  for  a  few  days.  He  was  simply 
overwhelmed  with  work,  Sally  had  explained.  Sylvia 
Beresford  wanted  him  to  decorate  the  whole  lower  floor 
of  her  town  house,  and  Mrs.  Fierce-Hull  had  commissioned 
him  to  paint  ceilings  and  walls  in  the  big  hall  of  her 
country  place  on  Long  Island. 

So  Phoebe  lived,  as  was  her  ardent  wont,  with  might 
and  main  during  the  precious  respite  that  fate  had  ac 
corded  her. 

She  was  that  wonderful  thing  to  Owen,  mistress  and 
wife  and  companion  all  in  one.  and  he  felt  sometimes  as 
though  he  must  break  through  the  thin  veil  that  still  hung 


374  WORLD'S-END 

between  them,  and  tell  her  to  he  utterly  at  peace, — that 
not  even  for  a  few  sinister  days  need  she  ever  see  Rich 
ard  again; — that  he  (Owen)  knew,  and  understood,  and 
took  her  part  against  herself  so  that  not  even  in  thought 
must  she  be  disloyal  to  her  truest  self, — the  self  that  was 
her  own  and  his, — that  should  be  inviolate  of  anything  so 
low  and  disintegrating  as  vain  remorse. 

But  he  controlled  this  desire.  From  the  beginning  he 
had  kept  silence  for  two  reasons: — first,  that  Phoebe 
might  not  think  compassion  alone  had  prompted  him  to 
offer  her  marriage;  second, —  (and  this  was  by  far  the  most 
vital  factor  in  his  course  towards  her) — that  she  might  de 
velop  from  within,  of  her  own  volition,  into  the  fineness 
and  strength  of  character  that  he  knew  to  be  latent  in  her. 

If  he  forced  the  truth  and  his  forgiveness  upon  her, 
they  would  still  be  gifts  from  without,  things  apart  from 
her.  But  if  the  truth  so  wrought  in  her  that  she  could 
no  longer  act  a  lie,  then  she  would  indeed  possess  her  own 
soul.  She  would  be  truth,  not  wear  it  at  another's  bid 
ding  like  a  garment  that  may  be  put  on  and  off  at  will. 

Perhaps  life,  master  of  irony,  never  arranged  a  situa 
tion  more  to  his  gusto  than  the  arrival  of  Richard  at 
World 's-End  on  Christmas  Eve.  Laden  with  gifts  he 
came,  and  of  course  everyone  (even  Phoebe,  to  whom 
Owen  had  made  a  present  of  the  present  that  she  was 
to  bestow)  had  gifts  for  him,  neatly  laid  away  in  tissue- 
paper,  sealed  with  little  red  cross  charity  stamps,  and 
tied  with  ribbon  decorated  with  holly.  No, — it  is  impos 
sible  that  irony  ever  had  more  toothsome  nourishment 
than  when  Richard  was  handed  by  Mary,  as  distributor 
of  Christmas-tree  fruit,  a  volume  of  Villon  in  a  marvel 
lous  old  binding,  the  gift  of  Phoebe  to  her  nephew-in- 
law;  while  Phoebe  received  a  real  "yellow- jacket"  of 
royal  Chinese  weave,  with  buttons  of  solid  gold, — the  sea 
son's  offering  from  Richard. 

She  got  America  to  light  a  huge  fire  in  the  laundry 
later  in  the  day,  and  slipping  out  (the  laundry  was  a 
brick  building  to  itself)  she  locked  the  door,  and  laid 
the  lovely  robe  on  its  last  bed  of  coals.  It  writhed  feebly 
before  it  caught,  as  though  sentient,  and  she  watched  it 
shuddering,  her  hands  gripped  together,  and  her  heart 
beating  fast.  Very  slowly  it  burned,  and  some  of  the 
gold  buttons  were  melted,  and  some  escaped  among  thi? 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  375 

ashes;  these  last  America  fished  out  afterwards,  and  had 
set  in  a  gorgeous  bracelet  which  she  never  wore,  however, 
until  safely  out  of  sight  of  her  mistress. 

Then,  still  pursuant  of  this  great  ironic  play,  cus 
tom  must  needs  compel  Richard  to  follow  with  the  little 
company  that,  headed  by  Phoebe  and  Owen,  went  first 
to  Downer's  house  to  preside  over  the  "Christmas-tree" 
held  there  yearly  for  the  laborers  and  their  families. 
Then  down  to  the  servants'  dining-hall  at  "World 's-End, 
vcli ere  a  like  tree  was  erected  for  the  negroes  and  picka 
ninnies,  and  a  noble  feast,  including  roast  pigs  and  tur 
keys,  spread  for  the  retainers  and  their  friends.  He 
had  to  stand  by,  smiling  as  best  he  could,  while  the  old 
servants  drank  the  healths  of  the  family  one  by  one,  name 
by  name, — and  called  heaven's  blessings  on  the  "1'il 
mist'ss"  meaning  Diana)  and  hoped  that  Owen's  seed 
would  be  like  Abraham's — "as  dee  sands  of  dee  sea." 
And  at  Hannah's  request,  he  had  to  play  the  small  organ 
that  was  Owen's  Christmas  gift  to  them  (being  the  only 
musically  endowed  member  of  the  family  there  was  no 
escape) — fitting  horrible,  commonplace  chords  to 

"Dere's  a  star  in  de  East  on  Chris 'mus  morn, 
Rise  up,  chillun,  an '   follow. ' ' 

And  to  the  old  plantation  hymn,  oddly  out  of  place  to 
the  Caucasian  mind  at  such  a  festival: 

"God's  gwine  set  dc  worl'  on  fire! 
He  's  gwine  raise  de  heavens  higher !  ' '  etc. 

And  also  Richard  had  to  play,  "Nearer  my  God  to  thee," 
while  the  rich,  thundering  chorus  of  throaty  negro  voices 
rolled  about  him,  and  he  could  see  (without  looking  at 
it)  Phoebe's  face,  hard  and  cold  and  white  as  a  heart- 
shaped  pearl,  close  to  Owen's  shoulder. 

"When  Sally  would  have  drawn  him  into  her  bedroom 
for  a  good-night  talk  that  evening  he  shrank  back,  saying 
in  a  stifled  voice. 

"Not  tonight,  mother  ...  I'm  not  fit  to  be  with  any 
one  but  myself  tonight." 

And  he  went  off  to  his  own  room  and,  shutting  the  door 
with  a  vicious  jerk,  was  suddenly  aware  that  his  eyes  were 
wet  with  tears  of  rage.  Yes.  it  was  as  he  had  said  to  his 
mother  that  autumn,  the  edge  of  his  helpless,  base  anger 


376  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

against  her  whom  he  had  injured  only  grew  keener  with 
time  and  occasion.  Hateful  desires  wrung  him.  He 
imagined  himself  wiping  that  little  frozen  curl  of  im 
placable,  sick  scorn  from  her  red  lips  with  a  kiss  of  hate; 
• — searing  it  from  them  with  the  cold  flame  of  angry  lust. 
And  he  shook,  standing  there  alone  in  his  room,  as  with 
the  evil  appetite  of  some  gnawing  disease  which  craves 
unholy  food, — with  a  low  hunger  akin  to  the  horrid  greed 
of  the  cannibal  for  human  flesh.  For  he  was  struggling 
in  the  throes  of  that  cruelly  dividing  emotion, — desire  for 
a  woman's  beauty,  and  hatred  of  the  woman  herself. 

And  ever  there  grew  in  him  the  craving  to  hurt  her, — 
to  wound  her  in  her  dearest  nerve.  He  had  not  descended 
so  low  into  the  abysm  of  self  that  he  desired  to  ruin  her 
in  the  eyes  of  others;  what  he  craved  was  some  stinging 
moment,  he  and  she  alone,  when  he  could  fling  her  back 
again  some  measure  of  the  scorn  with  which  whenever 
they  chanced  his  way  her  still  eyes  covered  him.  What 
right  had  she  to  look  at  him  as  though  he  were  offal,  as 
he  had  once  said? — After  all,  she  had  not  been  a  child 
when  love  overcame  her.  Something  at  least  of  the  ways 
of  passion  she  must  have  guessed.  She  had  come  out  to 
him  in  the  soft  May  night.  Did  she  expect  to  pass  a 
wild  night  of  spring  with  a  lover  and  go  scatheless? — 
Had  not  her  lips  clung  to  his?  Her  breast  throbbed  quick 
on  his? — And  he  grew  dizzy  with  the  longing  that  mem 
ory  awoke  in  him,  and  the  fierce  anger  which  he  now 
felt  against  her  for  daring  to  treat  him  as  though  he  were 
some  refuse  that  life  had  left  upon  her  path. 

To  hurt  her  ...  to  hurt  her  in  her  dearest  nerve,  se 
cretly,  cunningly, — that  only  would  assuage  this  cold 
fever  that  devoured  him.  But  he  knew  well  that  madness 
lay  that  way.  He  must  endure  as  best  he  might.  Yet 
here  she  and  her  child  were  lapped  in  luxury — and  he 
constrained  to  this  vile  hypocrisy  unless  he  would  be  beg 
gared  of  everything. 

He  stood  at  his  window,  staring  out  at  the  lovely  lawns 
and  fields  wrapped  in  winter  moonlight,  and  a  shrilling 
shimmer  of  sound  told  him  that  the  sheep  were  running 
after  the  bellwether  from  some  imaginary  danger.  The 
sound  brought  back  all  childhood  and  boyhood.  He  re 
membered  how  once  when  a  tiny  lad,  he  had  asked  his 
mammy,  sitting  up  in  his  crib  to  listen, — "What's  that 
funny  noise?"  And  mammy  had  said:  "Go  to  sleep 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  877 

little  master,  dat's  only  dee  sheep-bells.  H'it's  only  your 
own  sheeps  running  to  fold." 

And  when  he  had  asked — "Are  they  really  all  my 
sheep,  mammy?" 

IShe  had  said:  "Well,  dey's  as  good  ez  yo'  own  sheeps 
• — same  as  dis  whole  place  is  good  as  yo'n — ef  Marse  Owen 
don't  never  marry." 

And  now  it  had  all  slipped  from  him  forever  like  some 
bright,  teasing  houri  in  a  dream.  And  she  and  her  child, 
— his  own  child— would  have  it  all.  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  she 
had  taken  everything  from  him  .  .  .  stripped  him  naked 
.  .  .  yet  she  must  needs  blister  his  bareness  with  her 
steady,  unrelenting  scorn.  .  .  . 

Then,  suddenly,  with  that  curious  perverseness  which 
was  his  chief  characteristic,  he  realised  that  the  emotion 
which  so  rankled  in  him  was  one  of  rare  and  peculiar 
savour.  Cesare  Borgia  might  have  felt  towards  a  woman 
who  dared  scorn  him  just  such  a  poignantly  envenomed 
mixture  of  desire  and  hatred. 

And  he  began  to  muse  on  the  power  of  different  cycles 
over  the  form  assumed  by  human  passions,  which  at  core 
are  so  unvarying. 

He  recalled  the  portrait  of  Cesare,  by  Raphael,  in  the 
Borghese  gallery  at  Rome,  and  how  several  people  had 
said  that  he  resembled  it.  His  face  was  longer  and  more 
sharply  modelled,  but  he  could  see,  himself,  that  his 
opaque,  black  eyes,  slightly  swimming  up  from  the  lower 
lids,  and  his  mouth,  small,  composed  and  secretive,  were 
much  the  same  as  those  in  the  portrait.  Yet,  though  this 
biting,  poisonous  emotion  that  now  corroded  him  might 
have  been  felt  by  that  other,  pang  for  pang,  his  expression 
of  it  in  the  fifteenth  century  and  any  expression  that  could 
be  given  it  in  the  twentieth  must  necessarily  differ  in 
all  essentials. 

It  brought  him  a  grim  diversion  in  his  sore,  exasperated 
mood,  unmedicined  by  even  the  hope  of  retaliation,  to 
fancy  what  course  Cesare  might  have  pursued  with  a 
wroman  who  presumed  to  look  at  him  with  a  very  nausea 
of  loathing.  He  remembered  how  the  Duke  of  Valentino 
had  been  used  in  perverse  sport  to  shoot  with  arrows  at 
prisoners  loosed  in  a  court-yard  for  the  purpose, — pin 
ning  them  by  the  hair  and  garments  with  cruel  skill, 
until  he  chose  at  last  to  send  a  shaft  home  in  the  quiver 
ing  flesh.  Yes,  he  might  have  ordered  a  woman  like  Phoebe 


378  WORLD'S-END 

to  be  brought  into  that  court-yard  and,  then,  cool,  in 
scrutable,  with  the  little  placid  smile  on  his  small  mouth, 
he  might  have  sent  his  delicate  arrows  through  her  gown 
as  she  ran  terrified  from  wall  to  wall, — fixing  her  at  last 
by  the  mass  of  her  splendid  hair.  Then,  while  she  hung 
there,  crucified  against  the  wall  by  her  own  hair,  he 
might  have  advanced,  smiling  and  suavely  elegant  in 
his  velvet  and  slashed  sleeves,  and,  as  he  sealed  her  ter 
rified,  parted  lips  together  with  a  kiss, — might  have  driven 
his  poniard  into  her  heart. 

Yes, —  it  would  have  been  like  Cesare  to  take  that  subtle, 
terrible  caress  from  dying  lips  that  loathed  him.  There 
were  no  such  men  or  passions  now.  Even  he,  who 
could  conceive  this  blighting  force  of  lustful  revenge  in 
another,  had  no  desire  to  harm  vitally  the  woman  that 
he  craved  and  detested  at  the  same  time.  To  make  her 
share,  if  for  a  moment  only,  the  stinging  humiliation 
which  she  dealt  out  to  him  was  the  utmost  of  his  desire. 
But  he  wondered  whether, — had  he  lived  in  Cesare 's  day, 
— he  might  not  have  been  capable  of  deeper  cruelty. 

As  the  week  which  he  was  compelled  by  circumstance 
to  spend  at  World 's-Erid  went  by, — his  pent,  sullen  anger 
against  her  bit  ever  sharper  and  sharper.  Small  incidents 
were  continually  happening  to  exacerbate  this  feeling. 
The  skill  with  which  she  avoided  ever  addressing  him 
directly  without  seeming  rude  was  really  amazing.  Never 
once,  since  his  first  visit  in  October,  had  she  spoken  to  him, 
except  in  the  casual  way  demanded  by  her  position  as 
hostess.  When  she  did  speak,  she  looked  between  his  eyes. 
Once  chance  so  arranged  it  that  they  met  face  to  face  in 
the  woods  of  World 's-End  Mountain.  He  had  gone  out 
with  his  gun,  though  the  legal  date  for  shooting  was  past, 
having  sickened  of  hunting,  and  the  long,  aimless  rides 
that  formed  the  only  alternative.  Phoebe,  seeing  that 
"Borak"  was  not  in  the  stables  (she  was  very  careful  to 
inform  herself  of  Richard's  probable  whereabouts),  and 
ignorant  of  the  fact  that  a  groom  had  ridden  him  to 
Crewe,  had  gone  to  the  winter  woods  for  refuge. 

They  met  face  to  face.  Richard,  standing  by  a  great 
boulder  in  the  dry  bed  of  a  stream,  saw  her  coming  long 
before  she  saw  him.  His  first  thought  was  to  turn  back, 
then  a  savage  impulse  fixed  him.  He  stood  watching  her, 
his  small  mouth  just  touched  by  a  smile. 

Phoebe  was  walking  with  her  head  bent,  her  eyes  on 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  379 

the  dead  leaves  which  rustled  ankle-deep  about  her.  Grow 
ing  warm  with  the  steady  climb  she  had  thrown  her 
jacket  over  one  shoulder,  and  rolled  her  gloves  into  a 
ball,  which  she  tossed  absently  in  her  hand  as  she  ad 
vanced.  When  she  was  about  a  yard  from  him  she  looked 
up  with  a  start,  like  one  rousing  suddenly  from  sleep. 

Her  face  went  white  and  her  eyes  black.  The  gloves 
fell  on  the  dead  leaves  between  them. 

Richard  stooped  and  handed  them  to  her.  She  took 
them  mechanically,  then  turning  short,  went  away  from 
him  between  the  grey  stems  of  the  trees.  When  she  had 
gone  about  ten  paces  he  saw  her  hand  open  and  the  gloves 
fall  at  her  side.  She  walked  rapidly  on  and  soon  the  grey 
aisles  hid  her  from  him. 

A  blaze  of  wrath  scorched  Richard. 

"She  dropped  them  as  if  they  were  filth,  just  because 
I'd  touched  them,"  he  thought,  staring  at  them.  His  jaw 
set  with  an  ugly  clench.  As  he  passed  the  gloves  on  his 
way  down  the  mountain  he  kicked  them  aside  among  the 
underbrush. 

That  afternoon,  when  tea  was  being  served  in  the  rose 
room,  Mary  ran  in  with  the  baby,  and  sat  her  on  the  car 
pet. 

"Just  watch  her!"  she  cried,  laughing.  "She'll  be 
toddling  before  we  know  it.  She  pulls  herself  up  on  her 
little  feet  by  anything  that's  handy." 

Richard  saw  Phoebe's  eyes  dilate  as  they  fixed  them 
selves  on  little  Diana.  As  once  before,  the  baby  was 
crawling  straight  towards  him,  pausing  now  and  then  to 
hammer  with  her  little  feet  on  the  carpet,  and  gurgle 
joyously.  In  her  eagerness  she  had  taken  her  small  under- 
lip  entirely  under  her  daisy-petal  teeth,  and  her  small 
chapped  chin  glistened  like  a  pink  shell  with  the  tension. 

Phoebe  half  rose  from  her  chair,  then  sank  back  again. 
She  was  just  pouring  out  a  cup  of  tea  for  Sally.  With 
a  hand  that  shook  slightly  she  carefully  dropped  in  the 
two  lumps  that  Sally  always  took  with  her  afternoon  tea. 

Richard,  with  a  cruel  joy  at  his  heart,  watched  the 
baby's  rapid  advance  towards  him.  This  was  her  chief est 
treasure.  He  would  grasp  it  in  both  hands  and  she  could 
not  cast  it  from  her  afterwards  as  she  had  cast  her  gloves 
because  his  touch  had  soiled  them. 

"Isn't  she  too  darling  with  Richard!"  Mary  cried,  de 
lighted.  "See  her  lifting  herself  up  by  his  leg! — Don't 


380  WORLD'S-END 

be  frightened  Richard — she  won't  hurt  you,"  she  ended, 
laughing. 

"I'm  not  at  all  frightened,"  said  Richard. 

The  baby,  with  both  dimpled  arms  clamped  about  his 
leg,  was  slowly  but  surely,  amid  a  series  of  earnest  little 
grunts,  dragging  herself  onto  her  bronze-shod  feet. 

"Pitty!  Pitty!"  she  shouted,  succeeding  at  last  and 
having  resource  to  her  latest  accomplishment  in  words  to 
express  the  triumph  of  her  soul.  And  bobbing  and  dip 
ping  slightly  in  her  effort  to  maintain  the  perpendicular, 
she  gazed  up  into  Richard's  face,  her  arms  wrapped  about 
his  leg. 

Pie  bent  forward  and,  gripping  her  by  either  arm,  lifted 
her  suddenly  upon  his  knees.  Still  gripping  the  small 
arms  fast  he  held  her  there,  staring  at  her  with  what  he 
meant  to  be  a  smile,  but  which  was  more  like  a  grimace 
of  pain.  And  he  gripped  her  tighter  and  tighter,  a  savage 
desire  to  hurt  overmastering  him. 

' '  Bravo,  Richard ! ' '  called  Mary.  ' '  lie 's  really  scared 
to  death  ..."  she  smiled  in  an  aside  to  Owen,  near 
whom  she  was  sitting. 

But  now  the  baby,  who  almost  never  cried,  was  getting 
the  oddest  look  on  her  little  face, — half  like  one  who  courts 
a  coy  sneeze,  half  that  of  a  woman  who  is  afraid  of  cats 
and  senses  one  in  the  room.  Her  delicate  eyebrows  made 
a  sudden  "V"  on  her  forehead, — her  under-lip  thrust 
out  like  a  wee  cherry, — then  suddenly,  the  finest,  most 
piteous  wail  came  plainting  up  from  her  little  breast. 

Phoebe  swooped  like  a  hawk.  Her  eyes  were  the  pan 
ther's  that  sees  its  cub  maltreated.  She  caught  the  baby 
to  her  heart,  and  stood  glaring  at  Richard,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot. 

"You  hurt  her!"  she  spat  at  him.  "You  hurt  her! 
.  .  .  How  dare  you!" 

"She's  a  little  coward,"  said  he  coolly.  "Fancy  my 
hurting  her.  .  .  .  ' 

"You  are  the  coward, — to  hurt  a  baby!"  cried  Phoebe, 
beside  herself." 

Sally's  voice  slid  in  like  a  sliver  of  ice  between  flames. 

"Owen,  I  must  really  ask  you  to  speak  to  Phoebe, — 
she  seems  quite  out  of  her  head.  .  .  .  ' 

Richard  rose  and  strolled  to  a  window.  He  did  not 
wish  his  face  to  be  seen  just  then. 

Owen,   putting  his   arm  about  Phoebe   and   the   baby, 


WORLD'S-END  381 

who  was  now  catching  her  breath  in  a  series  of  little 
half-comforted,  hiccoughy  sobs,  led  them  from  the  room. 

"He  hurt  her! — Coward!  .  .  .  He  hurt  her!"  Phoebe 
kept  saying,  shaking  so  violently  that  he  was  afraid  she 
might  let  the  child  fall.  "He  hurt  her!  Tie  hurt  my 
baby!— I  could  kill  him!— I  could  kill  him!" 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Owen  could  quiet  her. 


XLV 

''PUREE  days  before  New  Year  the  weather  turned  bit- 
•*•  tor  cold;  the  roads  became  like  iron  and  the  little 
Green-Flower  was  stiffened  from  bank  to  bank  in  a  mail 
of  grey  ice. 

"If  this  continues  for  a  few  days  longer  we  shall  have 
skating,"  Owen  had  said  at  dinner  that  night. 

On  the  second  morning,  however,  the  thermometer  sud 
denly  dropped,  thick,  yellowish  clouds  heaped  themselves 
along  the  horizon,  and  as  twilight  gathered  a  feathery 
snow  began  to  fall. 

All  night  it  snowed,  and  dawn  broke  over  a  white  world. 

On  that  morning,  although  it  was  the  middle  of  the 
holidays,  Owen  had  an  engagement  in  Charlottcsville  with 
his  attorney.  There  were  some  last  matters  to  go  over 
before  his  new  will  could  be  put  into  its  final  form,  and  he 
was  very  anxious  that  Sally  should  have  a  copy  of  it  at 
the  earliest  date  possible.  He  was  anxious,  also,  to  have 
the  matter  settled  once  for  all  and  dismissed  entirely 
from  his  mind.  He  had  decided,  during  this  last  visit  of 
Richard's  to  World 's-End,  that  some  way  must  shortly  be 
found  to  prevent  the  recurrence  of  so  dreadful  an  ordeal 
for  Phoebe.  Perhaps,  in  the  softened  mood  that  would 
result  from  Sally's  knowledge  of  the  inheritance  with 
which  he  had  provided  Richard,  he  might  be  able  to  sug 
gest  to  her,  that,  on  account  of  the  evident  antipathy  which 
existed  between  him  and  Phoebe,  it  would  be  better  that 
he  should  not  come  to  World 's-End  in  the  future  while 
they  were  stopping  there.  He  thought  that  he  could  make 
her  see  the  reasonableness  of  such  a  proposition,  merely 
by  referring  to  the  painful  scene  which  had  taken  place 
only  two  days  ago  in  the  rose  room,  when  Phoebe  had 
thought  that  Richard  purposely  hurt  little  Diana.  Owen 


382  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

himself,  while  all  one  ache  of  sympathy  for  Phoebe,  had 
not  for  a  moment  shared  her  opinion  in  the  matter,  al 
though  he  did  not  let  her  see  this.  As  ruthless  as  he  con 
sidered  Richard  to  be  by  reason  of  his  quintessential  ego 
ism,  he  refused  to  believe  that  he  could  be  moved  by  so 
stark  and  primitive  a  force  as  that  of  reflex  cruelly  di 
rected  against  the  child.  No,  her  wild  suspicion  was  only 
the  result  of  that  inner  pain  and  repulsion  which  Rich 
ard's  mere  presence  excited  in  her,  working  feverishly  on 
nerves  already  strained  to  snapping  point.  But  in  one 
way  or  another  she  must  be  shielded  from  such  suffer 
ing,  and  the  sooner  the  copy  of  his  will  was  in  Sally's 
hands  the  sooner  he  would  be  free  to  make  some  move  in 
that  direction. 

Phoebe  drove  with  him  to  Crewe,  wrapped  in  the  white 
fox  furs  which  had  been  his  Christmas  gift  to  her,  and 
which  Sally  had  told  Mary  were  absurdly  inappropriate 
for  anything  but  evening  wear. 

"What  difference  does  it  make  here  in  the  country?" 
Mary  had  replied.  "She  looks  such  a  darling  in  them — 
like  a  lovely  little  Mrs.  Santa  Glaus, — and  she  won't 
wear  them  in  town  except  to  the  play  or  a  dinner. ' ' 

Sally  said  contemptuously:  "He  decks  her  out  as  if 
she  were  a  doll." 

And  Mary  demurely  retorted,  thinking  of  Phoebe's 
pounce  on  Richard  in  the  rose  room:  "She's  rather  a 
lively  sort  of  doll,  I  must  say." 

"A  little  like  the  Iron-Maiden  of  Nuremburg,"  Sally 
capped  it. 

Mary  said  to  herself:  "Phoebe  is  really  right.  Sally 
detests  her." 

Returning  from  the  drive  to  Crewe,  Phoebe  made  Da 
vid  stop  at  the  stone  bridge  and  got  out.  In  spite  of 
her  fur-coat  she  was  chilled  by  sitting  motionless  for  all 
those  miles,  and  she  turned  off  along  the  river  to  lengthen 
the  walk.  She  would  go  around  by  the  boat-house  and 
so  up  through  the  rose-garden, — quite  half  a  mile  more 
than  if  she  had  followed  the  avenue  from  the  bridge. 

As  she  passed  the  boat-house,  and  turned  into  the  nar 
row  path  between  box-hedges  that  led  through  the  garden, 
past  the  maze  called  ' '  Queen  Charlotte 's, ' ' — she  saw  Rich 
ard  coming  towards  her. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  turn  back,  then,  as  every  form 
of  cowardice  was  hateful  to  her  high-spirited  nature,  she 


WORLD'S-END  383 

went  quietly  on,  that  white,  still  look  which  the  sight 
of  him  always  brought  freezing  her  face,  under  the  soft 
snow  of  her  cap. 

When  he  was  directly  opposite  she  pressod  herself 
among  the  stiff  box-leaves  for  him  to  pass,  but  he  stood 
still,  looking  steadily  at  her. 

From  this  point  the  columns  of  the  west  wing  were 
hidden  by  the  huge  mass  of  box  that  Availed  the  garden 
from  the  lawns;  only  the  chimney  stacks  were  visible  and 
part  of  the  railing  of  the  roof  and  south  portico.  They 
were  as  alone  in  the  winter  garden  as  though  the  walls 
of  pale  blue  air  had  been  marble. 

T\rhen  she  had  waited  for  some  two  moments,  Phoebe 
said  in  her  lowest  voice: 

"Let  me  pass,  please." 

Her  eyes  looked  levelly  past  him,  and  he  could  see  that 
she  was  holding  her  inner-lip  between  her  teeth. 

In  a  smooth,  monotonous  tone  he  replied : 

"Do  you  think  it  wise  on  your  part  to  show  your  feel 
ing  for  me  so  very  openly?" 

It  had  not  seemed  as  if  her  face  could  grow  whiter,  yet 
it  did  so. 

"Please  let  me  pass,"  she  said  again. 

"Pardon  me  ...  I  confess  that  concern  for  myself 
mixes  with  my  motive,  yet  concern  for  you  moves  me  too." 

She  stood  perfectly  silent,  but'  one  nostril  trembled 
slightly.  It  was  the  quivering  of  the  muscle  which  marks 
contempt  in  a  human  face. 

"You  may  sneer,"  he  said  with  sudden  violence.  "But 
I  suppose  that  you  have  some  sort  of  regard  for  my  un 
cle." 

She  put  up  her  hands  and  jerked  open  the  fur  at  her 
throat  with  a  startlingly  quick,  mechanical  gesture.  He 
saw  her  swallow,  once,— twice. 

"Don't  dare  to  speak  of  him,"  she  said,  still  in  that 
very  low  voice,  scarcely  moving  her  lips. 

His  narrow  eyebrows  lifted  like  his  mother's — those 
opaque  black  eyes  of  his  swain  a  little  more  towards  the 
upper  lids. 

"Really  ...  "he  said  in  a  dry  tone.  "I  am  not  to 
be  allowed  to  mention  my  own  relative?" 

She  repeated  in  exactly  the  same  voice  and   cadence. 

"Don't  dare  to  speak  of  him." 

Richard  gave  his  short  laugh. 


384  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

"Come,"  he  said,  "this  is  going  a  little  too  far.  He 
was  my  uncle,  you  know,  before  he  was  your  .  .  .  hus 
band." 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  insolence  with  which  he  ut 
tered  this  last  sentence. 

"Don't  dare  to  speak  of  him.  .  .  .  Don't  dare  to  speak 
of  him,"  she  said  again,  exactly  like  one  talking  in  sleep. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  condensed  look,  curiously  hate 
ful. 

"And  why?"  he  said.  "You  did  not  always  count 
me  so  unworthy." 

He  felt  as  though  he  had  stabbed  a  snow-image. 

She  stood  just  as  still,  just  as  frozen,  her  eyes  even  did 
not  quiver.  They  looked  past  him  blank  and  fixed. 

He  went  on: 

"There  are  several  things,  in  fact,  that  I  must  say  to 
you,  and  they  include  my  Uncle  Owen.  .  .  .  ' 

At  this  name  she  leaped  to  life  as  though  he  had  kin 
dled  resin.  Her  eyes  blazed  full  on  his,  her  breast  heaved. 
She  clenched  her  hands,  pressing  them  against  it. 

"If  I  were  a  man  I'd  kill  you,"  she  said. 

Eichard  smiled.  This  was  a  more  womanly  mood.  He 
quite  understood  it.  He  felt  more  at  ease. 

"Yes  ...  I  daresay,"  he  retorted.  "But  as  you're  not 
a  man,  don't  you  think  we'd  better  be  practical? — It 
doesn't  matter  when  we're  alone  as  now, — but  when  we're 
with  others,  don't  you  think  you'd  better  restrain  the 
outward  signs  of  your  ...  a  ...  dislike  for  me? — Your 
present  happiness  has  a  frail  foundation  at  best.  If  you 
continue  to  treat  me  as  you've  done  .  .  .  lately.  .  .  .  ' 
(He  smiled  again.)  "My  uncle  can  hardly  help  having 
his  suspicions  aroused  and  then.  .  .  .  ' 

He  shrugged  one  shoulder  slightly,  still  smiling. 

"Oh,  coward!  .  .  .  Pitiful  coward!"  said  Phoebe,  al 
most  in  a  whisper,  and  her  voice  was  like  the  moan  of 
one  only  half  chloroformed.  "If  he  had  not  gone  away 
you  wouldn't  dare.  .  .  .  ' 

"You  give  me,"  said  Richard,  "no  credit  whatever  for 
a  possible  consideration  for  yourself.  I  had  thought  that 
in  his  absence  an  interview  with  me  would  be  less  painful 
for  you.  After  all,  he  has  been  a  good  uncle  to  me  .  .  . 
I  am  trying  to  save  him  possible  suffering.  Yes, — in  my 
way,  I  am  trying  to  serve  him.  .  .  .  ' 

She  was  panting  now  as  though  she  had  been  running 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  385 

far  and  fast  through  the  heavy  snow;  her  eyes  had  that 
wild,  glazed  look  of  a  hare  caught  suddenly  in  fangs  that 
only  half  kill. 

"  'To  serve  him'!"  she  stammered.  "You! "  She 

caught  desperately  at  her  broken  speech, — rushed  on. 
"You  aren't  worthy  to  eat  the  dust  his  feet  have  trod 
den.  .  .  .  His  dog  is  nearer  to  him.  ...  If  he  knew 
you  lie  would  spit  upon  you.  .  .  .  ' 

Richard  was  as  white  as  she  was  now,  but  he  still  smiled. 

"And  yet,"  he  said,  "you  were  my  mistress  before 
you  were  his  wife." 

It  was  these  words  uttered  with  clear  deliberation  that 
Owen  heard  as  he  came  swiftly  up  over  the  soundless 
carpet  cf  snow.  He  had  in  his  hand  the  ash  stick  that 
he  usually  carried,  and,  as  these  words  came  from  Rich 
ard's  lips,  he  struck  him  with  it  across  the  face.  It  laid 
his  cheek  open  from  chin  to  temple,  and  the  blood  gushed 
forth  startling  as  a  red  flower  in  that  winter  garden. 

And  at  the  sight  of  that  blood,  and  the  stricken  face 
of  her  he  so  loved,  Owen  went  suddenly  "berserk." 

Thrusting  out  his  great  hand  he  caught  Richard  by  the 
collar  of  his  coat  and  jerking  him  from  the  ground  beat 
him  as  a  vigorous  wench  beats  a  carpet. 

When  she  saw  that  limp,  bloody  figure  writhing  with 
out  a  sound  in  the  terrible  grip  that  was  a  madman's, 
Phoebe  screamed,  the  scream  of  a  snared  hare, — and 
sprang  to  them. 

"Owen!  Owen  .  .  .  Stop!  ...  0  God!     0  God!" 

And  she  clung  to  his  arm,  reaching  wildly  towards  the 
hand  that  held  the  ash, — sobbing  .  .  .  seeing  nothing  in 
her  terror  but  rivers  of  dreadful  scarlet  ...  a  crimson, 
world.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Suddenly  Owen's  arm  fell, — his  grip  on  Richard 
loosened,  and  like  a  doll  of  rags  the  beaten  man  subsided 
in  the  snow  at  their  feet. 

Owen  stood  like  a  figure  of  stone  staring  down  at  him, 
the  ash  still  clenched  in  his  hand,  but  Phoebe  dropped 
on  her  knees  beside  the  huddled,  blood-smeared  form,  and 
began  wildly  searching  for  signs  of  life  in  it. 

"Oh,  God!  .  .  .  Oh,  God!"  she  kept  sobbing.  "I  can't 
feel  his  heart.  .  .  .  You've  killed  him  .  .  .  Oh,  God!  .  .  . 
Oh.  God!" 

All  at  once  Owen  roused.  He  threw  the  stick  from 
him,  and  stooping  lifted  Richard  in  his  arms.  He  went. 


386  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D 

straight  towards  the  house,  and  Phoebe  followed,  her  hair 
fallen  loose  about  her  head  like  a  poor  street-girl's  after 
a  drunken  brawl — her  white  furs  blotched  with  blood. 
More  than  ever  she  looked  like  some  wild,  soft  wood- 
creature  mangled  by  fangs  that  only  half  kill. 

But  when  he  came  to  one  of  the  old  marble  vases  that 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  first  terrace  he  stopped  and  eased 
his  burden  upon  it.  Despite  his  enormous  strength  the 
dead  weight  of  a  man  nearly  six  feet  tall  was  too  much 
for  him;  the  sweat  poured  from  his  face  in  the  cold  air, 
as  it  had  done  when  he  carried  Phoebe  herself  from  Holly- 
brook  Wood  to  Nelson's  Gift.  Besides  he  had  suddenly 
begun  to  think  with  astonishing  clearness. 

She  stood  beside  him  straight  and  stiff, — the  attitude 
of  a  soldier  awaiting  orders.  She  who  fainted  so  easily 
over  her  own  troubles  felt  firm  as  iron  to  help  him  bear 
his.  He  was  staring  out  at  the  snowy  ground  with  bent 
brows.  Suddenly  he  turned  his  eyes  on  her.  His  look 
was  hard  and  impersonal, — the  look  of  an  officer  apprais 
ing  the  force  of  a  lieutenant  to  whom  he  is  about  to  give 
nerve-testing  orders. 

"Can  you  help  me? — You  don't  feel  faint?"  he  said. 

"No,  I  can  do  anything.     Tell  me." 

"Then  go  and  send  Jonathan  and  David — find  Mary 
and  tell  her  to  keep  Sally  out  of  the  way — send  Hannah 
to  his  room.  Wait  .  .  ."  he  said  sharply,  as  she  sprang 
forward.  "Take  off  your  coat."  She  did  so.  "Fold  it 
inside  out."  She  obeyed  him  deftly.  "Tell  Mary,  .  .  . 
tell  anyone  who  asks,  that  Ironmonger  savaged  him." 
(Ironmonger  was  a  colt  that  had  only  been  handled  a 
few  times,  and  was  feared  to  be  vicious.  Downer  and  Owen 
had  put  him  a  loose-box  at  the  house  stables,  hoping  to 
"gentle"  him  by  constant  kindness  and  handling.)  "Do 
you  understand?" 

"Yes." 

"He  went  into  the  box,  and  the  colt  got  him  jammed 
and  kicked  him.  Tell  Mary  to  break  it  to  Sally.  Now 
.  .  .  quick!" 

She  was  off  like  a  lapwing,  her  hair  beating  loose  upon, 
her  shoulders  as  she  ran,  and  hanging  at  last  in  a  great, 
unravelled  knot  below  her  waist. 

The  swinging  of  that  bright  rope  seemed  to  fascinate 
his  eyes: — they  remained  fixed  on  it  until  she  was  out  of 
sight.  Then  he  looked  down  at  the  head  hanging  like 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  387 

a  broken  manikin's  over  his  arm.  The  blood  had  coagu 
lated  and  frozen  about  the  long  split  in  the  cheek;  the 
eyes  showed  in  silvery  streaks  and  a  half-moon  of  dim 
black  under  the  purplish  eyelids;  the  open  mouth,  at  one 
corner  of  which  the  blood  had  clotted,  made  a  small  grim 
hole  in  the  ghastly  face. 

At  first  he  had  not  struck  to  kill,  else  Richard  would 
have  dropped  like  a  bullock, — but  afterwards.  .  .  .  The 
old  human  threat  ''I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  body," 
came  back  to  him.  Yes, — he  had  meant  to  beat  that  body 
to  a  pulp, — he  had  not  cared  while  that  ecstasy  of  rage 
held  him  whether  he  took  one  or  twenty  lives.  AVas  Rich 
ard  dead? — Was  it  a  corpse  that  he  was  holding  against 
the  great  vase,  as  against  a  funeral  urn? — And  would 
Sally,  too,  fall  dead  with  the  shock  of  it  ? — In  that  moment 
lie  felt  curiously  indifferent.  Glutted  rage  resembles  at 
first  the  plethora  that  follows  the  glut  of  animal  food.  He 
had  sent  Phoebe  on  those  precautionary  errands  from  a 
motive  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  emotion  or  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation.  It  was  civilisation  reclaiming  him. 
He, — who  so  lately  had  been  mere  savage,  clubbing  what 
had  maddened  him  with  the  single  fury  of  a  cave-man  bat 
tering  his  enemy  with  a  stone, — had  waked  with  cool  wits 
to  the  necessity  of  preventing  scandal,  of  proteecting 
others,  of  shielding  Sally  from  unnecessary  shock  and 
Phoebe  from  the  sinister  results  of  his  outbreak.  Per 
sonally,  whether  Richard  were  alive  or  dead  mattered 
nothing  to  him  at  that  moment.  lie,  who  shrank  from 
wounding  a  bird,  felt  a  cold,  aloof  indifference  to  the  shat 
tered  thing  that  lay  there,  half  in  his  arms,  half  on  the 
marble  vase. 

And  then  he  saw  that  Phoebe  wras  returning,  still  at 
a  fleet,  light-footed  run  over  the  noiseless  snow,  followed 
by  old  Jonathan  and  David,  also  running,  but  out  of  re 
spect  keeping  a  little  behind  her. 

Owen  took  Richard's  body  under  the  arm-pits,  and  the 
two  others  supported  his  back  and  legs.  They  walked 
slowly  to  the  house,  breaking  step  so  as  not  to  jar  him  more 
than  was  inevitable. 

And  Phoebe,  in  her  thin  blouse  and  skirt,  her  hair  still 
loose  about  her,  walked  close  to  Owen,  talking  in  low 
quick  tones. 

"I  found  Mary.  .  .  .  She's  with  Cousin  Sally  now  .  .  . 
Hannah  is  getting  everything  ready  ...  I  told  them  what 


388  W  O  K  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

you  said  I  was  to  tell  them.  .  .  .    What  must  I  do  now?" 

"  'Phone  Patton — He's  at  Warwick. — He  l:as  a  motor 
today. — He  brought  me  here. — Tell  him  life  or  death." 

She  was  off  again,  elbows  to  sides,  chin  up,  like  a  boy 
running. 

They  got  Richard  to  his  room,  Owen  helped  Hannah 
to  cut  away  his  clothes  and  la*y  him  in  the  bed.  They 
had  scarcely  finished  when  the  door  was  thrust  open  and 
Sally  entered  with  Mary  close  behind  her.  Her  black 
eyes  were  fixed  like  a  somnambule 's.  She  went  straight 
to  the  bed  and  fell  on  her  knees  beside  it.  One  arm  curved 
above  the  stark  head  on  the  pillow,  the  other  she  stretched 
out  along  the  limbs  outlined  by  the  counterpane.  These 
arms  in  their  sleeves  of  black  velvet  were  like  the  wings 
of  some  great  bird  striving  to  hover  a  shattered  nestling. 

Mary  stood  quiet  and  still  behind  her,  her  fingers 
plaited  together,  great  tears  running  down  her  face.  The 
servants  were  huddled  in  a  dark  silent  knot  near  the  door. 
Owen  stood  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  his  face  like  stone. 
They  all  thought  Richard  dead. 

' '  Bring  me  cloths  and  hot  water, ' '  said  Sally 's  voice. 

Mary  knelt  down  beside  her,  and  put  her  arm  about  her 
shoulder. 

"•Hadn't  we  better  wait,  dear?"  she  whispered.  "Doc 
tor  Patton  will  be  here  in  a  little  while.  We  might  do 
harm.  .  .  .  ' 

"Very  well,"  said  the  impassive,  slightly  croaking  voice. 
"I  shouldn't  like  to  do  him  harm." 

Mary  hid  her  face  in  her  free  hand,  and  the  tears 
ran  through  her  fingers. 

The  door  opened  and  Phoebe  came  in. 

"Doctor  Patton  is  on  his  way  now,"  she  said  in  a  clear, 
quiet  voice.  "What  else  can  I  do?" 

"Nothing,"  Owen  answered  her.  "Go  to  your  room 
and  try  to  rest." 

"I  can't  rest,"  she  said.  She  looked  from  one  to  the 
other. 

No  one  returned  her  look,  they  were  all  gazing  at  that 
dreadfully  quiet  bed.  She  stood  there  a  moment  longer, 
then  stepped  quickly  backward  and  went  out. 

She  went  straight  down  the  wide  stairs,  across  the  hall, 
and  out  again  into  the  snow.  As  she  neared  the  garden 
hedge  she  broke  into  a  run.  Faster  and  faster  she  ran, 
until  she  came  to  the  place  in  the  narrow  path  near  Queen 


WORLD'S-END  389 

Charlotte's  Maze,  where  they  had  been  standing  when 
Owen  came  on  them.  Dropping  on  her  knees  she  began 
scooping  the  snow  with  both  hands  over  the  red  stains  that 
marred  it  here  and  there.  This  accomplished,  she  looked 
about  her  with  that  look  of  a  trapped,  desperate  hare. 
On  every  side  her  dark,  scared  eyes  quested.  Then  she 
began  making  little  rushes  to  right  and  left.  At  last,  be 
yond  the  box-hedge,  in  a  furrow  between  the  rose  beds 
she  saw  what  she  was  seeking. 

Pressing  through  the  stiff  twigs  she  went  swift  and 
light-footed  as  a  mousing  cat  and  picked  up  the  big  ash 
stick.  As  she  grasped  it  a  shuddering  fit  seized  her  for 
the  first  time,  her  teeth  chattered  and  the  blood  rushed 
over  her  white  face.  Then  mastering  herself, — kneeling 
down  in  the  fresh  snow,  so  as  to  be  less  easily  seen  by  any 
one  chancing  to  cross  the  garden, — she  examined  the  stick 
inch  by  inch. 

Yes  .  .  .  there  .  .  .  some  dark  stains.  Involuntarily 
her  hands  opened,  the  stick  fell  again  upon  the  snow. 
Again  mastering  herself  she  seized  it  and  began  scrubbing 
at  those  red  smears  with  a  handful  of  snow.  They  seemed 
grained  into  the  wood :  she  could  not  remove  them,  though 
the  white  dust  fell  pinkened  through  her  fingers. 

After  some  moments  of  this  vain  labour  she  hid  the  stick 
under  the  dark  cloak  that  she  had  snatched  up  in  the 
hall,  and  went  rapidly  back  again  to  the  house. 

She  stopped  to  listen.  Except  for  the  ticking  of  the 
big  clock  in  the  upper  hall  the  house  was  still  as  death. 
She  shuddered  again,  then  skimmed  swift  and  noiseless 
to  her  bedroom.  She  shut  and  locked  the  door.  As  usual 
a  great  fire  of  logs  burned  on  the  wide  hearth.  Kneeling 
before  it  she  thrust  the  end  of  the  stick  in  the  coals.  It 
ignited  slowly,  the  ferrule  becoming  incandescent  and  the 
wood  burning  to  a  glow  like  coal.  As  it  burned  she  thrust 
it  farther  and  farther  in.  Now  all  was  consumed  but  the 
big  knob,  polished  by  the  grasp  of  generations  of  Ran 
dolphs.  She  thrust  this,  too,  in  the  lambent  mass  under 
the  bellies  of  the  huge  logs, — struck  it  home  with  the  poker 
of  wrought  steel, — raked  the  glowing  embers  over  it. 

Then  only  did  she  sink  back  upon  the  hearth-rug  with  a 
long,  long,  heavy  sigh. 

The  fire  had  scorched  her  eyes,  her  eyelids  seemed  to 
have  no  moisture  in  them.  Her  loosened  hair,  hanging  in 
snarls  about  her  cheeks,  troubled  her  suddenly. 


390  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

Springing  to  her  feet  she  went  to  the  dressing  table 
and  began  to  comb  and  brush  out  the  tangled  lengths.  Her 
own  eyes  looked  back  at  her  serious,  almost  angry,  but  they 
held  no  meaning  to  her.  Pier  mirrored  face  was  like  the 
face  in  a  picture  which  has  no  meaning  save  to  the  artist 
who  painted  it. 

It  was  like  a  mask — and  she  felt  masked  to  herself.  She 
had  lost  her  feeling  of  identity.  She  was  someone  mov 
ing  through  a  play  the  whole  of  which  she  had  never  read ; 
— her  own  part  and  the  "cues"  were  all  that  she  knew  of 
it.  Now  it  was  her  part  to  make  herself  neat  and  go  and 
sit  in  the  upper  hall  in  case  she  might  be  needed.  Pres 
ently  she  knew  that  the  curtain  of  the  first  act  would  fall. 
Her  part  would  be  over.  She  was  only  cast  for  that  first 
act.  What  was  Owen's  part? — She  could  not  tell.  But 
the  play  would  go  on  without  her  presently,  and  he  would 
still  be  in  the  play.  Her  part  was  a  very  short  one.  It 
must  be  over  after  Doctor  Patton  came.  "When  Owen  had 
heard  what  he  had  to  say,  then  he  would  spare  the  time 
to  come  and  tell  her  that  she  must  go.  It  was  strange, — 
long  ago — in  a  far  country, — she^  had  wondered  what  he 
would  do  if  he  ever  found  out,t-whether  he  would  kill 
them  both.  Now  he  had  killed  Richard. 

She  was  very  wicked — worse  than  she  had  believed  her 
self  to  be,  for,  think  and  urge  herself  as  she  might,  she 
could  not  be  sorry  that  Eichard  was  dead.  She  was  only 
sick  with  fear  for  what  might  happen  to  Owen.  But 
she  could  lie  for  him  at  least.  It  was  good  to  be  so  wicked 
if  that  would  save  the  one  you  loved  more  than  God. — 
She  could  swear  that  Richard  struck  him  first.  No  one 
else  had  seen.  Yes,  she  could  lie  for  him.  Swearing  on 
the  Court  Bible  to  that  firm  lie,  she  could  give  her  soul 
for  him;  even  he,  in  his  just  wrath,  could  not  keep  from 
her  that  dark  privilege. 

As  she  pinned  up  the  last  coil  of  her  hair  the  chugging 
of  a  motor  sounded  just  under  the  window.  She  looked 
out,  holding  the  embroidered  curtain  before  her  face. 
Yes,  that  was  Doctor  Patton.  He  got  out  with  a  black 
case  in  his  hand  and  came  quickly  up  the  steps,  looking 
neither  to  right  nor  left.  Once,  though,  he  lifted  his  head 
and  stared  up  at  the  blank  face  of  the  quiet  house.  Then 
he  disappeared. 

Phoebe  slipped  noiselessly  into  the  hall,  and  sat  on  a  lit 
tle  chair  just  behind  the  first  archway  where  she  could 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  391 

see  part  of  the  lower  hall  and  the  door  of  Richard's  room 
without  being  seen  herself. 

ISlie  saw  old  Jonathan  make  as  if  to  show  Patton  the 
way,  but  the  doctor  merely  nodded  and  brushed  past  him, 
mounting  the  stairs  lightly  and  rapidly,  still  with  that 
fixed  stern  look  on  his  face.  lie  went  straight  to  Rich 
ard's  door,  opened  it  without  knocking  and  went  in,  clos 
ing  it  behind  him.  In  another  moment  Mary,  Sally  and 
Hannah  came  out. 

Sally  still  moved  and  looked  like  a  somnambule.  Her 
mouth  was  like  a  thin,  violet  bruise  on  her  sallow  face. 

Mary  walked  with  her  arm  about  her,  murmuring  some 
thing  all  the  time  very  low  into  her  ear.  Sally  took  no 
notice  of  her  or  of  anything.  Behind  them  came  Hannah, 
crying  softly,  and  making  no  attempt  to  wipe  her  eyes  or 
cheeks. 

Hannah  turned  off  towards  the  servants'  stairway,  and 
the  other  two  went  on  into  Sally's  room.  Phoebe  saw 
Mary's  hand  steal  out  behind  her,  drawing  to  the  heavy 
mahogany  door. 

Sue  was  all  alone  now  in  the  great  hall,  with  only  the 
slow,  imperturbable  beating  of  the  old  clock  for  company. 

"I  am  the  true  heart  of  the  house,"  it  seemed  to  say. 
"No  matter  what  human  hearts  are  stilled  beneath  this 
roof  I  beat  on  unwearying  from  generation  to  genera 
tion." 

She  gazed  up  at  it  as  at  a  human  face. 

"It  will  go  on  beating, — beating  long  after  my  heart 
has  stopped,"  she  thought.  "When  all  our  hearts  have 
stopped  forever,— it  will  go  on  beating,  night  and  day." 

But  now  a  little  regular,  muffled  noise  on  the  stairway 
made  her  look  up  startled.  It  was  AYizzy,  coming  up  with 
s'':olid,  infirm  perseverance,  one  step  at  a  time,  in  search 
of  his  master.  Phoebe  slipped  to  the  stairs  and  met  him. 
£he  lifted  him  up  in  her  arms,  and  pressed  down  his  sleek, 
resisting  head  against  her  breast. 

"Be  good,  dear, — be  good,"  she  urged  lowly.  "Owen's 
in  trouble.  You  can't  see  him  now.  Stay  with  me.  Owen's 
i.u  trouble." 

The  dog  gazed  up  at  her  out  of  the  senile  tears  in  his 
aged  eyes,  and,  though  the  words  were  inscrutable  to  him, 
the  tone  he  understood  quite  well.  He  stopped  resisting, 
and  lay  limp  and  forlorn  within  her  arms. 

So  passed  a  long,  long  time.     Hannah  came  and  went 


392  WORLD 'S-END 

with  various  things.  Joe  followed,  bringing  cans  of  hot 
water  from  the  bathroom.  A  strange,  hospital  odor  of 
disinfectants  began  to  steal  through  the  hall. 

Sally  came  out  of  her  room  again,  still  with  Mary's 
arm  about  her  and  stood  listening.  Niobe  must  have 
looked  like  that  as  she  stood  listening  for  the  deadly 
twang  of  the  god's  bow-string. 

Mary, — still  holding  her  by  the  arm — as  though  she 
feared  to  have  her  out  of  touch  for  even  an  instant, — 
reached  out  and  dragged  a  hall  chair  nearer.  But  Sally 
merely  moved  a  step  away  from  it,  without  impatience, 
with  a  sort  of  fatal  determination,  as  of  one  resolved  to 
die  standing. 

Then  Owen  and  Patton  came  from  behind  that  door, 
which  somehow  seemed  the  door  of  fate, — and  the  four 
went  again  into  Sally's  bedroom. 

AVizzy  whined  and  struggled  when  he  saw  Owen,  but 
Phoebe  put  her  hand  quickly  over  his  little  working  snout, 
and  whispered  vehemently  to  him  to  be  still,  and  again, 
as  if  by  a  sort  of  telepathic  understanding,  he  subsided 
and  ceased  to  whine. 

And  now  again  they  were  coming  out.  This  time  Sally 
walked  between  Charles  Patton  and  Mary,  each  of  whom 
supported  her.  Phoebe  could  see  the  muscles  in  her  thin 
throat  working  convulsively,  dragging  down  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  in  a  grimace  of  anguish.  She  was  fighting 
with  ail  her  harsh,  imperious  will  for  self-control.  Owen 
followed,  still  with  that  face  of  stone,  and  this  time  they 
went  again  into  Richard's  room. 

Another  long,  long  time, — then  Owen  and  Doctor  Pat- 
ton  came  once  more  into  the  hall,  leaving  the  door  slightly 
ajar.  They  walked  towards  the  staircase.  No  sound  came 
from  that  darkened  room. 

Just  as  they  were  about  to  descend  the  stairs  Phoebe 
stole  forth,  with  AVizzy  still  in  her  arms,  and  went  up  to 
them. 

She  fixed  her  big,  strained  eyes  on  Patton 's  face. 

' '  Is  he.  ...    Is  he  ...   ? "  she  whispered. 

"He's  very  ill,  my  dear,"  said  Patton.  "Concussion 
of  the  brain.  But  I  can't  stop  now.  I've  some  things  to 
talk  over  with  Owen.  Go  and  lie  down.  I'll  come  to  you 
presently.  Tell  her  that  she  must  lie  down,  Owen." 

Owen  said  in  an  expressionless  voice: 

"Go  and  lie  down,  please,  Phoebe." 


WORLD 'S-END  393 

"I  will,"  she  whispered,  and  went  quickly  away  from 
them,  her  head  bent  over  the  little  dog,  who  was  again 
beginning  to  whimper  and  resist. 

Owen  closed  his  study  door,  and  turned  to  Patton. 

"I  needn't  tell  you  that  it  wasn't  a  horse's  hoofs  did 
that  work. ' ' 

"No  ...  I  saw  that,"  said  Patton  quickly. 

Owen  looked  at  him. 

"I  did  it,"  he  said. 

Patton  returned  his  look  unmoved. 

"Yes?  .  .  .  Doubtless  he  deserved  it,"  he  replied  as 
quickly  as  before. 

"At  first,"  continued  Owen,  "I  didn't  strike  to  kill, 
but  afterwards  I  meant  to,  I  think.  At  least,  I  didn't 
care  Avhether  I  killed  him  or  not.  No —  '  he  added  in 
a  firm  voice.  "I  meant  to  kill  him.  A\7ill  he  die?" 

"Sit  down,   old  man,"  said   Charles  Patton. 

Owen  obeyed  mechanically. 

Patton  went  on  speaking  in  a  quiet,  professional  voice. 

"I  can't  tell  anything  until  he  comes  out  of  this 
stupor,"  he  said,  also  taking  a  chair.  "It  may  be  very 
serious  ...  it  may  only  be  a  matter  of  careful  nursing. 
By  the  wray,  did  you  have  Miss  Carney  and  Miss  Lee 
'phoned  for?  The  case  will  need  a  night  and  day  nurse." 

"Yes,"  said  Owen.  "I  sent  Jonathan  to  attend  to  it 
at  once.  They  will  motor  down  this  afternoon." 

"Good.  That  compound  fracture  of  the  right  arm  is 
going  to  be  troublesome.  I  don't  think  there  are  internal 
injuries,  but  it's  all  a  matter  of  guess-work  for  the  next 
twenty- four  hours  or  so — 

Owen  got  up  rather  slowly,  and  went  to  the  window. 

After  rive  or  six  minutes  Patton  rose  and  followed  him. 

"Don't  'eat  your  heart,'  old  man,"  he  said 

0 wen  made  no  reply.  After  a  wrhile,  without  turning 
round,  he  said: 

"If  he  dies  I  shall  consider  myself  legally  answerable." 

Patton  scowled  to  himself,  thrusting  out  his  heavy  under 
lip,  and  staring  at  Owen's  broad  shoulders  which  half 
rilled  the  window. 

"Quixotism  is  a  rum  thing,"  he  remarked  finally.  "It 
deals  chiefly  with  the  tender  conscience  of  the  quixotist 
and  is  apt  to  leave  out  other  people." 

"I  can't  sneak  out  of  a  just  debt  of  manslaughter, 
Charles,"  said  the  other  dryly. 


w  u  Jfc  ij  JJ    o  -  xu  i\  u 

Patton  said: 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  light  a  pipe?" 

"No.    The  matches  and  tobacco  are  in  the  usual  place." 

Patton  lighted  his  faithful  briar,  and  then,  after  several 
considering  puffs,  said  slowly : 

"You  know  there  are  ways  and  ways  of  bearing  a  thing 
without  having  recourse  to  'sneaking  out  of  it.' — In  my 
opinion  the  man  who  bears  the  burden  of  a  fault.  .  .  .  ' 

"  'Manslaughter'  is  not  a  fault, — it's  a  crime." 

"Well,  say  of  a  crime  then, — the  man  who  bears  such 
a  burden  in  private, — when  no  good  whatever  can  be  done 
by  accepting  public  ignominy, — who  bears  it  alone, — 
rather  than  cover  his  family  with  the  reflex  disgrace  of 
his  punishment, — well,  in  my  opinion,  that  man  is  a  better 
citizen, — more  a  man  in  fact, — than  the  purist  who  gives 
himself  up  to  man-made  justice  for  the  assuaging  of  his 
own  conscience." 

"Charles,  that  is  sophistry,  and  you  know  it" 

"I  beg  your  pardon.    I  know  it  s  hard  sense." 

' '  He  was  defenceless  and  I  struck  him.  I  had  a  stick  in 
my  hand  that  would  have  broken  an  ox.  I  held  him  up 
and  smashed  him  like  an  eggshell — my  brutal  strength 
against  his  weakness.  If  he  dies  I  am  answerable  to  the 
law, — and, — I  shall  answer." 

"There  are  things  in  law  called  'extenuating  circum 
stances.'  " 

"Yes.    They  will  do  me  no  good." 

Patton  thrust  back  a  half-burned  log  with  his  foot  as 
though  he  hated  it.  He  went  on,  though  he  knew  that  he 
might  as  \vell  beat  with  a.  feather  against  a  wall  of  iron. 
What  dark,  evil  mystery  lay  behind  this  appalling  disas 
ter  he  could  not  even  vaguely  surmise,  but  that  it  was 
very  dark  and  very  evil  he  felt  assured.  The  circum 
stances  that  had  caused  Owen  Randolph  to  break  another 
man  in  pieces,  not  only  the  law  but  the  gods  themselves 
might  well  deem  "extenuating." 

"Look  here,  Owen,"  he  said  in  a  voice  of  sweet  reason 
ableness,  "as  man  to  man, — as  brother  to  brother  I  may 
say, — tell  me  this: — do  you  honestly  consider  that  to  rot 
out  the  better  years  of  your  life  in  a  penitentiary  would 
really  avail  anything  with  gods  or  men? — Do  you  hon 
estly  believe,  that, — in  case — well  ...  in  case  of  Rich 
ard's  dying, — that  it  would  soothe  Sally, — even  if  she 
knew  the  facts,  which  mercifully  she  does  not,  you  tell 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  395 

me ; — that  it  would  assuage  or  comfort  her  in  the  least 

to  know  that  her  only  brother  was  a  convict ?"  (lie 

pressed  it  home.)  "And  your  young  wife,— your  child. 
"What  of  them?  And  the  old  name.  .  .  .  Your  father's 
name  ? ' ' 

Owen  turned  a  dreadful  face  on  him. 

"Forgive  me  ...  "  he  said  thickly.  "I  find  I  can't 
discuss  it." 

lie  went  quickly  to  the  door  and  was  gone. 

Patton's  teetli  nearly  met  in  the  mouth-piece  of  his 
pipe.  lie  started  towards  the  door,  then  stood  stock-still, 
scowling  at  it  from  under  his  shaggy  brows.  His  face 
worked.  He  put  his  hand  over  it,  and  stood  a  long  time 
in  the  darkening  room  without  moving. 

Then  he  strode  forward,  jerking  open  the  door  as  if 
he  were  wroth  with  it,  just  as  he  had  kicked  back  the 
fallen  log,  and  went  up  to  Phoebe's  bedroom. 

She  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  the  little  lace  pillow  pressed 
to  her  cheek,  gazing  at  the  grey  cornucopias  of  the  car 
pet.  AYizzy  lay  in  the  curve  of  her  waist,  and  as  Pat- 
ton  opened  the  door  looked  up,  eagerly  working  his  black 
nose,  dry  with  age,  in  search  of  the  beloved  aroma  he  so 
yearned  for. 

Phoebe  sat  up  as  Patton  came  towards  her,  and  gazed 
at  him  with  those  strained,  dilated  eyes  that  he  had  no 
ticed  just  now  in  the  hall. 

He  went  over  to  a  carafe  of  crystal  that  stood  on  a  table 
near  the  bed  and,  pouring  out  a  glass  of  water,  brought  it 
to  her  with  two  little  white  pellets  which  he  handed  her, 
all  in  silence. 

She  swallowed  them  with  the  sweet  obedience  which 
made  her  so  touching  in  her  times  of  trouble. 

"Now,"  he  said  cheerily,  "lie  still  a  little  longer.  I'm 
going  to  sit  here  by  you  and  pamper  Wizzy  till  those  little 
chaps  get  their  work  in." 

After  five  minutes  had  passed,  and  still  he  sat  there  si 
lent,  she  said  timidly: 

"Doctor  Charlie ?" 

"Bless  me,"  he  said,  smiling,  and  putting  out  his  hand. 
"I  was  hoping  you  had  dozed  off." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said.  "I  couldn't  sleep.  I  don't  feel 
as  if  I  should  ever,  ever  sleep  again." 

"You  don't,  eh?  ...  We'll  see  about  that  later  on. 
"What  were  you  going  to  ask  me?" 


396  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

"About.  .  .  .     About  .  .  .  Owen  .  .  .     Where  is  he?" 

"I  think  he  went  for  a  walk,"  said  Patton,  with  kind 
mendacity. 

She  sank  back  writh  a  little  resigned  sigh  that  struck  him. 
as  piteous. 

Presently  she  said: 

"Doctor  Charlie  .  .  .  has  he  told  you?" 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"Did  he  tell  you  that  I.  .  .  .   ' 

"lie  told  me  about  nothing  but  his  own  part  in  the 
matter,"  said  Patton  quickly. 

"Ah  ..."  said  Phoebe.  Her  face  began  to  quiver. 
She  turned  her  head  against  the  little  pillow  to  hide 
it. 

The  door  opened. 

Phoebe  started  violently.  The  desperate  jerk  of  her 
whole  body  as  it  lay  prone  on  the  sofa  made  Patton  think 
of  a  just  caught  fish  jerking  for  breath  on  a  bank. 

"Hello!"  he  said  cheerily,  rising.    "Here's  Owen  now." 

Pie  took  out  two  more  little  pellets  and  twisted  them  in 
a  leaf  torn  from  his  prescription  book. 

"Just  take  those  in  another  hour,"  he  said.  "I  must 
be  having  a  look  at  my  patient.  See  that  she  takes  them, 
Owen." 

"Very  well,"  said  Owen  in  his  level,  lifeless  voice. 

Patton  went  out. 

Owen  locked  the  door,  and,  when  Phoebe  heard  that 
sound,  a  fierce  wave  of  mingled  terror  and  joy  broke  over 
her. 

"Now  ....  Now  ..."  she  thought,  "he's  going  to 
kill  me  too!" 

She  lay  with  her  eyes  shut,  waiting, — and  she  seemed 
to  be  swaying  back  and  forth  through  space  in  a  great 
swing. 

Then  she  felt  his  cheek  against  hers  on  the  little  pillow, 
and  one  of  his  arms  went  over  her. 

"My  heart, — my  little  heart.  .  .  .  "What  have  I  done  to 
you?"  he  was  whispering. 

Phoebe  had  a  sensation  as  though  she  had  fallen  from 
an  immense  height  upon  a  cushion  of  air  that  kept  her 
from  being  crushed. 

"My  sweet.  .  .  .  My  winsome  .  .  .  what  have  I  brought 
on  you?  .  .  .  What  have  I  brought  on  you?"  the  hoarse, 
anguished  whispering  went  on.  And  now  his  face  was 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  397 

buried  on  her  breast,  bis  arms  held  her  to  him  as  though 
they  would  drag  her  back  from  some  awful  abyss. 

Light  struck  her  like  a  blow. 

"He  didn't  believe  him  ..."  whirled  the  wild  reve 
lation — "lie  didn't  believe  what  Richard  said.  ,  .  .  " 


XLVI 

jNLY  at  a  place  "run"  as  Owen  ran  "World 's-End 
could  the  story  of  "Ironmonger's"  savaging  Richard 
have  been  plausible  for  a  moment,  but  during  the  Christ 
mas  holidays  the  servants  there  were  always  given  an 
unusual  amount  of  freedom,  and  on  that  day  every  groom 
had  been  absent  from  the  stables  since  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  David,  after  driving  his  master  to  Crewe,  was 
to  stable  the  bays,  feed  them,  and  then  also  take  to  him 
self  a  leisurely  afternoon. 

It  was  because  he  was  aware  of  all  these  facts  that 
Owen  had  thought  of  fixing  the  disaster  upon  "Ironmon 
ger."  He  knew  that  David's  devotion  could  be  trusted, 
and  when  he  left  Patton  in  the  study  he  sent  Jonathan  to 
tell  David  to  meet  him  at  the  foot  of  the  western  lawn. 

The  white  man  and  the  black  man  stood  facing  each 
other  in  the  winter  tAvilight. 

"David,"  said  Owen,  "I  am  going  to  give  you  a  proof 
of  the  entire  trust  that  I  have  in  you." 

"Yessuh,"  said  the  taciturn  negro. 

"I  have  said  that  Mr.  Richard's  accident  was  caused 
by  the  colt, — that  he  went  into  'Ironmonger's'  box  and 
the  horse  savaged  him.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Yessuh." 

"No  one  must  ever  guess  that  this  is  not  the  truth.  I 
have  grave  reasons  for  wishing  it." 

The  negro's  soft,  heavy  eyes  gazed  at  him  unflinchingly. 
There  was  in  them  a  look  much  like  that  in  Wizzy's  mel 
ancholy  gaze  when  he  regarded  his  master. 

"Yessuh,  Mr.  Owen,  suh.    You  kin  count  on  me." 

' '  I  know  th at  David.     Thank  you. ' ' 

"Yessuh.    Thank  you,  suh." 

"  'Ironmonger,'  must  leave  the  place  tomorrow.  Mr. 
Downer's  nephew,  Mat  Goodeloe,  is  anxious  to  have  him. 
Take  him  there.  Say  the  horse  is  my  New  Year's  gift, — 


398  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

that  I  consider  his  present  viciousness  only  due  to  his  not 
having  been  handled  from  a  foal  as  we  handle  our  colts 
here  at  World 's-End.  He  is  by  Ironsides  out  of  a  Cox 
comb  mare.  I  bought  him  from  a  man  named  Ladd  in  the 
other  valley.  If  Goodeloe  wishes  to  sell  him  he  is  at  per 
fect  liberty  to  do  so." 

"Yessuh." 

"You've  got  that  straight,  David?" 

"Yessuh." 

He  repeated  Owen's  instructions  and  stood  waiting. 

"Take  him  off  by  daybreak  tomorrow.  I  am  keeping 
the  motor  that  Doctor  Patton  came  in  at  World 's-End  for 
the  present.  When  you  come  back  from  Goodeloe 's  take 
the  cobs  and  the  light  wagon  and  go  to  Warwick  for  gaso 
line.  I  will  let  you  know  later  how  much  to  get.  j  Whero 
has  the  motor  been  put?" 

"In  dee  second  ca'yage  house,  suh." 

"Very  good.     That  is  all,  David." 

The  cause  of  Owen's  unexpected  return  to  World 's-End 
within  twenty  minutes  of  his  arrival  at  Crewe  had  been 
the  collapse  of  a  railway  embankment  near  Charlottes- 
ville.  Despite  the  calm  assertions  of  science  and  philoso 
phy  there  seems  to  be  a  force  at  work  in  the  lives  of  men 
called  variously  fate,  nemesis,  karma,  destiny. 

It  seemed  to  Phoebe  that  the  following  week  was  passed 
in  another  state  of  being;  that  she  was  in  a  lower  realm 
of  that  so-called  "astral  world"  so  glibly  described  in 
some  of  the  books  which  she  had  perused  during  the  last 
year.  Everything  looked  strange,  phantasmal,  curiously 
unfriendly.  She  saw  sinister  faces  in  the  winter  branches, 
the  shadows  on  the  snow,  the  furniture  and  hangings. 
The  folds  of  her  own  garments  thrown  on  chairs  or  bed 
formed  themselves  into  death  's-heads.  The  pictures  in  her 
fire  were  goblin-like.  When  she  took  up  a  book  to  try  to 
divert  her  anxious,  harrowed  mind,  it  seemed  always  as 
though  a  mocking  chance  led  her  to  phrases  and  descrip 
tions  that  had  a  horrid  likeness  to  her  own  case  or  the 
ghastly  events  that  had  just  befallen. 

And  the  two  trained  nurses,  in  their  bleak,  white  linen 
gowns  and  caps,  stealing  everywhere  through  the  silent 
house  like  preoccupied  ghosts,  added  painfully  to  her  il 
lusion.  They  seemed  to  her  like  true  astralites, — clad 
differently,  moving  differently,  speaking  in  different  tones 
from  the  denizens  of  the  familiar,  everyday  world. 


WORLD'S-END  399 

Miss  Lee  was  a  small,  slight  woman  of  about  forty,  with 
kindly,  composed  grey  eyes,  and  a  tender,  comforting  lit 
tle  way  of  sajdng  "The  best  doctors  are  alarmists,  dear 
Mrs.  Randolph.  Don't  be  scared  by  Doctor  Patton's 
gloomy  face."  Miss  Lee  was  the  day  nurse,  and  before 
she  went  to  her  room  she  would  sometimes  slip  in  with  a 
word  of  good  cheer  to  Phoebe,  telling  her  how  much  better 
the  patient  seemed,  or  that  she  did  not  really  think  that 
his  right  arm  would  be  stiff  for  life  as  the  doctor  feared, 
or  that  he  had  certainly  looked  at  his  mother  with  recog 
nition  once  at  least,  that  morning. 

But  Miss  Carney,  the  night  nurse,  a  tall,  vigorous  young 
Amazon  of  twenty-eight,  was  used  to  awake  from  her  nine 
hours  of  energetic  slumber  like  a  young  giantess  refreshed 
to  exaltation  with  the  wine  of  sleep,  and,  after  a  strenuous 
walk  and  a  hearty  dinner,  she  would  tap  at  Phoebe's  door 
before  going  on  duty  and  insist  on  massaging  her,  or  brush 
ing  that  "just  too  perfectly  beautiful  hair." 

Phoebe  disliked  intensely  being  kneaded  from  head  to 
foot  by  strange,  strong  hands  that  made  her  feel  as  though 
she  were  but  a  little,  helpless  heap  of  sentient  dough, — 
yet  could  not  bring  herself  to  refuse  these  generous  of 
fers  for  fear  of  hurting  the  kindly  feelings  of  Miss  Carney. 
And  as  she  kneaded,  and  rolled,  and  rubbed, — kneeling 
on  a  cushion  beside  the  ivory-coloured  bed  on  which  poor 
Phoebe  lay  stretched  like  a  second  Iphigenia  on  the  al 
tar  at  Aulis, — the  ebullient  nurse  would  pour  over  her 
a  cataract  of  pathologically  lurid  anecdotes  gathered  dur 
ing  her  professional  experience. 

Some  of  these  cheerily  related  tales  were  so  ghastly 
that  for  hours  after  Miss  Carney  withdrew  to  her  nightly 
watch, — Phoebe  would  lie  there,  tingling  with  over-excited 
muscles  and  nerves, — afraid  even  to  try  to  go  to  sleep  lest 
some  of  the  horrors  so  vividly  described  should  haunt  her 
dreams. 

She  went  rarely  to  the  nursery  in  those  days  and  when 
she  did  it  was  merely  to  kiss  the  baby  swiftly  and  go  out 
again. 

Giles  had  a  very  severe  air  towards  her.  She  considered 
that  no  event  less  upheaving  than  that  of  the  last  day 
should  interfere  with  all  due  attention  to  her  nursling. 
So  one  morning  she  appeared  firmly  in  Phoebe 's  room  with 
Diana,  and  placed  her  without  a  word  in  her  mother's 
arms. 


400  WORLD'S-END 

Phoebe  held  her  a  moment,  kissed  the  top  of  the  little 
hay-scented  head,  and  then  rising  put  her  back  in  Giles's 
arms. 

"  I  ...  I  can 't  .  .  .  Giles, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  'm  too  misera 
ble.  I  can't  play  with  the  baby  while  I  feel  like  this." 

"If  you'll  pardon  me,  m'm, "  Giles  had  said  with  grim 
firmness,  "your  child  should  be  a  consolation  to  you, 
m'm." 

"Yes,  yes  ...  I  know,"  Phoebe  had  said  irritably, 
"but  I  can't  have  her  now,  Giles.  I  really  can't." 

With  in-folded  lips  Giles  had  marched  to  the  door. 
Reaching  it  she  turned. 

"If  this  blessed  lamb  falls  ill,  m'm,"  she  said  dourly 
over  the  baby's  head,  "then  you'll  know  real  misery!" 

And  with  this  parting  shot  she  went  out,  closing  the 
door  so  softly  that  it  was  a  more  scathing  exit  than  a  bang 
would  have  been. 

If  Phoebe  rested  badly  during  these  feverish  days  and 
nights  Owen  could  not  have  been  said  to  rest  at  all.  He 
slept  on  a  couch  in  Richard's  dressing-room  to  be  within 
call  at  any  moment,  for  it  took  both  Patton  and  himself 
to  assist  in  moving  Richard  without  giving  him  too  much 
anguish. 

The  chauffeur  plied  constantly  on  errands  of  all  sorts, 
in  addition  to  taking  Patton,  during  such  hours  as  he  could 
be  spared,  to  the  houses  of  his  more  seriously  ill  patients. 

America  ventured  once  to  tease  the  grim  Giles  about 
her  solitary  meals,  shared  in  the  little  "office"  off  the 
pantry  with  this  red-bearded  personage,  but  Giles's  re 
buff  had  been  so  scarifying  that  even  America  had  not 
attempted  a  second  onslaught.  "Ye  black  folk  are  aye 
thinking  of  mating  and  muling,"  said  she.  "Just  to  think 
of  the  ruck  of  ye  is  to  fancy  ye  in  a  great  cudcliing-bed 
such  as  they  used  to  have  in  Wales,  so  my  grandmother 
told  me — and  being  Welsh  she  should  know.  Ye '11  e'en 
keep  your  black  nastiness  from  the  name  of  Martha  Giles 
or  I  '11  have  a  word  with  the  master. ' ' 

America  had  retired  furious,  but  subdued. 

Phoebe  saw  very  little  of  Owen.  After  the  momentary 
break-down,  when  he  had  come  into  her  room  locking  the 
door,  on  the  day  of  the  misfortune,  he  had  turned  again 
into  a  man  of  stone.  Phoebe  kept  to  her  room  most  of 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  1ST  D  401 

the  time,  but  now  and  then  Patton  would  burst  in  tem 
pestuously  and  drive  her  out  for  a  walk.  He  also  bul 
lied  her  into  taking  a  tonic.  But  nothing  succeeded  in 
rousing  her  from  her  pale  listlessness. 

Sally  she  never  saw,  except  sometimes  on  her  way  to 
and  from  Richard's  room.  Mary  was  nearly  every  mo 
ment  with  Sally.  Phoebe's  only  real  companion  and  ap 
proach  to  comfort  in  those  days  was  "Wizzy, "  and  the 
little  dog  followed  her  everywhere  like  a  small  decrepit 
shade,  and  slept  close  to  her  at  night,  wrapped  in  his  lit 
tle  blanket,  where  he  could  nudge  her  with  his  hot,  dry 
nose  when  evil  dreams  harassed  him.  In  some  dim,  dog 
gish  way  he  certainly  felt  that  being  near  Phoebe  was 
the  next  thing  to  being  near  his  master. 

On  the  tenth  of  these  dreadful,  unreal  days, — near  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning, — Phoebe  had  just  sunk  into  a 
troubled  doze,  when  a  wild,  unhuman  scream  roused  her. 
She  sat  up  trembling  all  over,  and  "AA7izzy"  started  up 
too,  his  scruff  bristling.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  dog's 
action  she  would  have  lain  down  again,  thinking  she  had 
dreamed, — so  deathly  was  the  stillness  of  the  house  after 
that  one  awful  cry.  But  as  it  was  she  lighted  her  candle 
as  soon  as  her  shaking  fingers  could  find  the  matches,  and 
throwing  on  a  dressing  gown  went  out  into  the  hall. 

A  low  wind  was  making  a  harp  of  the  outer  door.  The 
old  clock  beat  immovably  on.  These  were  the  only  sounds. 
But  then  she  saw  a  band  of  yellow  light  under  Sally's 
door.  As  she  gazed  at  it  Miss  Carney  came  running  out. 

Phoebe  rushed  to  her. 

"Can't  stop  now  ..."  she  said,  running  on  down  the 
stairs.  Phoebe  was  after  like  a  deer.  She  gasped  as  she 
ran: 

"You  must  tell  me.  ...     Is  he  ...  dead?" 

Miss  Carney  was  passionately  breaking  ice  from  the  big 
lump  in  the  refrigerator. 

"No  .  .  .  get  me  a  bowl  please.  No  ...  it's  his 
mother.  .  .  .  Doctor  told  her  .  .  .  out  of  danger  .  .  . 
went  off  like  that  .  .  .  sorry  can't  stop,"  and  thus,  tele 
graphically  speaking,  Miss  Carney  seized  the  bo-  i  without 
ceremony,  clapped  the  ice  into  it  and  was  off  upstairs 
again  in  a  fleet  run. 

Phoebe  followed  slowly.  Her  knees  felt  as  though  made 
of  wet  blotting  paper  now.  She  helped  herself  up  each 
step  by  the  banisters. 


402  WORLD'S-END 

Reaching  the  upper  hall  she  went  and  sat  in  the  little 
chair  behind  the  archway  as  she  had  done  on  that  first 
day.  But  now  her  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  door  of 
Sally's  room.  Was  she  going  to  die?  Was  she  perhaps 
dead  already?  Oh,  what  would  Owen  do  if  this  came  on 
him  ?  Nothing  that  she  could  do,  no,  not  the  pouring  out 
of  her  very  life,  could  help  him  if  this  horror  were  to  be 
fall  him.  And  icy  cold,  her  feet  and  hands  numb,  she 
crouched  there,  wrapping  herself  with  both  arms, — strain 
ing  them  about  her  own  body  as  though  she  would  help  it 
to  bear  this  new  and  fearful  pain. 

Wizzy,  holding  up  one  paw  as  though  it  were  wounded, 
came  and  gazed  at  her,  shivering  so  violently  that  she  felt 
compelled  to  loosen  her  desperate  hold  on  herself  and  take 
him  in  her  arms.  So  they  sat,  the  wretched  girl  and  the 
little  wretched  dog,  trembling  together  like  one  flesh. 

What  seemed  to  her  long  hours  afterward,  Mary  came 
out  in  her  soft,  white  dressing-gown.  Her  face  was  very 
pale  but  quiet,  and  hope  stirred  in  Phoebe's  heart.  Hold 
ing  Wizzy  to  her  she  stumbled  forward. 

"Mary  ..."  she  called  in  a  hoarse  whisper.    "Mary. 
» 

Mary  turned  with  a  start  and  came  towards  her.  She 
took  her  and  Wizzy  in  her  kind  arms. 

"You  poor,  dear  little  soul,"  she  said.  "You  look  half 
frozen.  It's  all  right,  darling.  Don't  shake  so.  Doctor 
Patton  has  pulled  Sally  through.  It  was  the  shock  of 
joy  after  her  long  despair.  Come  back  to  your  room,  poor 
baby.  We  shall  have  you  ill  next  thing." 

She  drew  Phoebe  into  her  bedroom  and  made  her  get 
into  bed. 

"My  poor,  poor  baby!"  she  said,  cuddling  her.  "I'm 
afraid  you've  been  dreadfully  neglected  all  these  sad  days. 
Your  little  patties  are  like  ice.  Are  your  feet  cold?" 

She  slipped  her  hand  under  the  bed-clothes  and  felt 
the  marble-cold  feet. 

' '  Just  you  wait  a  minute ! ' '  she  said,  nodding  and 
smiling. 

She  went  quickly  out  and  came  back  in  a  few  minutes 
with  a  bottle  of  hot  water  in  a  crocheted  overcoat.  It 
seemed  to  Phoebe  that  she  had  never  felt  a  more  blissful 
sensation  than  the  contact  of  that  bottle's  warm  little 
stomach  with  her  frozen  feet.  Tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"Cousin  Mary,  you're  an  angel!"  she  cried,  choking  and 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  403 

dragging  Mary's  head  convulsively  down  to  her  with  both 

arms. 

"Now  .  .  .  now  ..."  murmured  Mary.  "Don't  you 
be  imitating  poor  Sally  .  .  .  there  .  .  .  there.  ..." 

She  patted  and  soothed  her  as  if  she  had  really  been  a 
tearful  baby. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do!"  she  cried  sud 
denly,  straightening  and  putting  her  fingers  wisely  to 
her  lip.  The  little  dance  had  come  back  to  her  light 
eyes.  "We're  both  rather  cold  and  forlorn — I'm  going 
to  get  my  spirit-lamp  and  make  us  both  a  cup  of  nice,  hot 
tea!" 

"Oh,  Cousin  Mary  .  .  .  dear  Cousin  Mary,"  murmured 
Phoebe,  between  tears  and  laughter.  "It's  like  when  you 
read  of  good  things  to  eat  in  a  book  and  get  so  hungry. 
It  seems  to  me  I'd  rather  have  a  cup  of  tea  right  now 
than  go  to  heaven!" 

"But  first,  Madam  Greedy,"  replied  Mary,  "we're 
going  to  have  a  nice  blaze  in  this  vault-like  apartment  of 
yours.  "Where  does  America  keep  her  kindling?" 

Phoebe  told  her  and  half  got  from  bed  in  her  eager 
ness  to  help,  but  Mary  pushed  her  back  unceremoniously 
and  "battened  her  down,"  so  to  speak,  with  the  bed 
clothes  tucked  deep  about  her  ears.  Phoebe  submitted 
smiling,  but  still  tearful  with  mingled  relief  and  grati 
tude,  and  then  Mary  brought  a  parcel  of  little  "fat-wood" 
splinters  (the  resin  soaked  portions  of  old  pine)  and,  kneel 
ing  clown  before  the  chimney,  soon  had  a  sheet  of  spark- 
shot  blaze  roaring  up  it. 

"Oh,  what  a  good  husband  you  ought  to  get,  Cousin 
Mary,"  sighed  Phoebe  from  the  bed.  "Aunt  Patty  says 
that  when  a  woman  can  kindle  a  good  fire  it's  the  sign 
she's  going  to  have  a  good  husband." 

Mary  laughed. 

"He'll  have  to  be  one  of  the  'sons  of  God'  to  equal  that 
fire!"  she  said,  with  gay  pride  in  her  feat. 

The  whole  room  was  winking  and  laughing  in  the  or 
ange  glare  as  though  even  the  old  house  itself  partook 
in  the  general  feeling  of  relief  that  Richard's  escape  from 
death  had  brought  to  AVorld's-End. 

"Now  for  our  tea!"  said  Mary,  and  she  whisked  out, 
looking  more  than  ever  like  a  busy  angel  with  the  fleecy 
sleeves  of  her  dressing-gown  waving  back  in  the  energy 
of  her  movements. 


404  WORLD'S-END 

All  her  life  long  Phoebe  recalled  that  cup  of  scalding- 
tea, — drunk  as  the  grey  dawn  broke  over  World 's-End  on 
that  day  of  deliverance, — as  something  nectarous,  ambro 
sial,  divinely  uplifted  above  all  other  food  that  she  had 
ever  tasted  or  ever  would  taste.  And  she  asked  Mary 
to  warm  a  little  saucer  of  cream  dashed  with  tea  for 
Wizzy,  to  whom  this  beverage  was  a  consolation  for  most 
of  the  ills  of  life. 

She  got  up  when  Mary  had  gone,  too  restless  to  stay 
in  the  lonely  bed  which  Owen  had  not  shared  with  her 
now  for  two  long,  miserable  weeks. 

"Wrapping  her  warm,  fur-lined  dressing  gown  about  her 
she  wrent  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  She  always  slept 
with  her  shutters  wide,  as  Owen  liked  them,  and  now  she 
saw  the  pale  scarf  of  the  dawn  floating  above  the  dark 
horizon,  beyond  the  winter  twigs, — like  a  wfhite  signal 
waved  by  hope  it  seemed  to  her,  and  yet  .  .  .  and  yet. 
.  .  .  Oh,  where  was  her  resolution  to  tell  him  all  just  as 
soon  as  she  knew  wrhether  Eichard  would  live  or  die? — 
If  only  he  had  believed  those  cruel,  true  words.  And  as 
she  stood  there,  big-eyed,  forlorn,  a  little  lonely  waif  of 
life,  facing  the  full-breasted  dawn, — she  had  something  of 
the  wondering  pain  at  the  course  of  things  that  must 
visit  even  the  breast  of  a  Japanese  condemned  by  his  own 
decree  to  self -slaughter. 

The  door  opened  as  on  that  other  day  and  Owen  en 
tered.  He  was  very  pale  but  the  stony  look  had  gone  from 
his  face.  He  came  over  to  the  window  and  stood  beside 
her. 

"He  will  live  ...   "he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Phoebe  took  his  hand  timidly, — then  held  it  to  her  lips 
and  heart,  and  he  did  not  seek  to  stay  her.  She  did  not 
look  at  him,  and  he  too  was  gazing  at  the  quickening 
east.  A  red-bird  streaked  by  like  a  flame  springing  from 
the  ashen  branches. 

Owen  was  speaking  again — to  himself  now.  He 
was  speaking  his  thoughts  aloud,  muttering  indis 
tinctly  : 

"It  was  those  words  .  .  ."he  said,  "those  words.  ..." 

Suddenly,  in  that  cold,  bleak  dawn,  standing  there  ac 
tually  touching  the  one  desire  of  her  heart,  little  Phoebe 
was  caught  up  on  that  mount  of  transfiguration  whose 
stern  splendour  breaks,  if  only  once,  through  the  dark 
mists  of  most  human  lives. 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  405 

She  stepped  back  a  little  from  him,  and  said  in  a  small, 
faint  voice: 

"But  .  .  .  they  were  true  words.  .  .  .   ' 

"Eh?"  he  said,  like  a  man  rising  confused  to  the  sur 
face  of  his  own  thoughts. 

"Yfhat  .  .  .  Kichard  said  .  .  .  that  day  .  .  .  ahout  me 
.  .  .  was  true.  .  .  .  ' 

There  came  a  silence.  She  saw  his  hand  go  up  over 
his  eyes.  Then  he  reached  out  his  other  hand  behind  him 
without  turning,  and  drew  her  to  him.  He  held  her  so 
tight  against  him  that  he  hurt  her,  but  this  pain  was  beau 
tiful.  If  he  would  only  hold  her  tighter — tighter — until 
the  crushed  life  stopped  aching 

"You  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  didn't  understand  ..."  she  fal 
tered  piteously.  ' '  Oh,  put  me  from  you !  .  .  .  It  was  true. 
I  was  his.  .  .  .  ' 

" Don 't,"  he  cried  sharply.  "There's  110  need  .  .  .  I've 
always  known  it  ...  I  knew  it  when  I  married  you  .  .  . 
and  ...  I  knew  you  would  tell  me  .  .  .  some  day.  .  .  .  ' 

He  caught  her  up  to  him  in  both  arms  now,  and  she 
felt  his  cheek  pressed  down  upon  her  head,  and  the  tight 
ening  of  the  muscles  in  his  jaw  as  he  set  his  teeth  to 
gether.  He  caught  her  still  closer.  "Darling  .  .  .  darling 
.  .  .  darling  ..."  she  heard  him  whispering. 

At  first  she  clung  to  him  in  a  trance  of  amazed  rapture, 
— then  as  the  lightning  stabs  into  the  sea,  a  new,  lurid 
pain  struck  down  into  the  secret  depths  of  her  being.  If 
he  had  always  known — if  he  had  known  when  he  married 
her — then — it  was  out  of  pity  that  he  had  taken  her — to 
save  her — out  of  pity — pity — 

She  struggled  free  and  stood  staring  before  her  like 
one  witless. 

"Oh,  my  darling, — my  little  heart. — what  is  it?"  he 
asked  anxiously,  trying  to  take  her  in  his  arms  again. 
But  she  put  out  one  hand  against  his  breast,  and  stood  so 
wdth  her  stiffened  arm  holding  him  away  from  her. 

"Then  ...  it  ...  it  ...  was  pity  ..."  she  stam 
mered.  "You  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  didn't  .  .  .  love  me.  .  .  .  ' 

"Phoebe!"  he  cried.  He  tried  a  second  time  to  draw 
her  to  him.  But  she  held  him  off,  saying: 

"No  ...  no.  ...  Wait,  ...  It  was  pity  ...  all 
the  time  it  was  just  .  .  .  pity.  ...  0  my  God!" 

And  flinging  herself  down  she  buried  her  face  on  her 
arms  against  the  window-sill. 


406  W  O  li  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

Now  he  had  drawn  her  up  into  his  arms  again.  His 
voice  had  a  sort  of  tremulous  anger  in  it. 

' '  Phoebe !  .  .  .  Phoebe !  .  .  .  I  loved  you  from  the  first 
minute  I  ever  saw  you  .  .  .  not  as  I  do  now  .  .  .  but 
dearly.  Do  you  think  I  could  have  married  you  if  I 
didn't  love  you?"  He  gave  a  sort  of  broken  laugh,  then 
rushed  on  vehemently.  "The  man  doesn't  live  who  could 
take  to  wife  a  woman  he  has/^Be-  love  for.  There  was 
pity  too,  yes, — an  infinite  compassion  for  a  lovely  nature 
wronged  and  hurt,  but  I  believed  in  you.  I  always  be 
lieved  in  you — I  knew  I  had  only  to  wait.  I  knew  the 
truth  there  was  in  you — the  courage.  I  knew  that  you 
would  tell  me.  When  I  married  you  you  were  sick  to 
death  in  spirit, — a  poor  little  maimed  thing;  but  you,  the 
real  you,  my  Phoebe, — you  were  there  under  it  all.  And 
for  that  I  loved  you,  and  believed  in  you,  and  waited  for 
this  precious  hour.  Oh,  Phoebe!  .  .  .  little  heart  .  .  . 
don't  say  these  cruel  things  to  me.  .  .  .  ' 

But  she  went  on  feverishly  with  obstinate  despair! 
"You  only  say  it  to  comfort  me  .  .  .  you're  so  kind  .  .  . 
oh,  let  me  go !  ...  It  was  only  pity  ...  it  was  only  pity. 
...  It 's  only  pity  now. ' ' 

He  held  her  off  and  tried  to  look  into  her  face,  but  she 
hung  it  down  on  her  breast.  He  could  see  the  great  tears 
glittering  down  between  them — a  veritable  rain  of  tears. 

"Phoebe  ...  "he  said,  his  voice  was  very  low  and 
broke  on  the  \vords  here  and  there.  "I've  suffered  so 
much  these  past  days  .  .  .  are  you  really  going  to  make 
me  suffer  more  ? ' ' 

"It  was  pity  ...  it  was  pity  ..."  she  droned  on, 
gulping  her  tears  like  a  child  that  has  given  over  hop 
ing.  "It  was  only  pity  ...  let  me  go  ...  I  will  go  back 
to  father.  .  .  .  ' 

Then  she  heard  a  sound  of  such  fierce,  contained  an 
guish  that  it  startled  her.  It  was  the  moan  back  of  shut- 
teeth  which  breaks  from  a  man  who  is  at  the  limit  of  his 
endurance.  She  glanced  up  through  her  blinding  tears  in 
terror,  and  seeing  his  face  her  terror  increased  tenfold. 
He  had  the  sunken,  gone  look  of  one  dying, — his  face  was 
all  contorted.  He  tried  to  speak  in  answer  to  her  look, — 
tried  twice, — then  suddenly  broke  into  such  sobbing  as  a 
woman  may  only  hear  once  in  her  lifetime,  and  which 
when  death  comes  she  still  seems  to  hear. — In  an  instant 
she  had  flung  herself  against  him,  over  him  as  it  were, 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  407 

as  though  she  would  shield  him  from  his  terrible  grief  with 
her  soft  body.  "Oh,  my  darling!  Oh,  my  life!  .  .  .  My 
soul  .  .  .  my  blood!"  she  cried.  "Stop!  ...  Stop!  .  .  . 
I  can't  bear  it.  ...  No  !  No !  I  will  not  ever  say  it  again. 
.  .  .  Never,  never  again.  Yes,  you  love  me !  I  feel  it ! 
.  .  .  Oh,  I  love  you  so!  ...  Oh,  I  shall  die  if  you  don't 
stop  .  .  .  you  are  tearing  me  .  .  .  you  are  tearing  out  my 
heart  .  .  .  these  are  not  tears  .  .  .  they  are  blood  .  .  . 
Owen!  Owen!  ..." 

lie  clutched  her  as  the  drowning  clutch, — his  face 
pressed  between  her  breasts,  and  with  her  hands,  her 
arms,  her  whole  body  she  clung  to  him, — wreathed  about 
him, — wound  his  head  to  her  with  desperate,  savage  ten 
derness.  So  they  clung  sobbing  together,  shaken  as  by 
one  life. 

The  bright  fire  that  Mary  had  kindled  died  down, — 
steps  began  to  pass  softly  to  and  fro  in  the  house.  The 
red  winter  sun,  burning  softly  through  the  ashen  branches, 
wrapped  them  in  a  glowing  web.  Until  they  were  quite 
spent  they  clung  there  in  each  other's  arms,  and  Phoebe, 
under  the  veil  of  her  thick  hair,  drank  the  tears  from  his 
face  with  passionate  kisses  .  .  .  kissed  and  kissed  that 
dear  face  that  was  more  than  God  to  her  wild,  wilful  heart, 
— kissed  it  until  she  was  so  weary  that  she  just  left  her 
lips  against  it  in  one  long,  exhausted  caress  of  utter  self- 
abandonment  and  love  half-assuaged. 


XLVII 

went  early  to  bed  that  evening  at  World 's- 
*-*  End.  It  was  as  if  they  had  seen  the  hem  of  death's 
sable  garment  trail  from  the  threshold,  and,  double-locking 
the  steadfast  door  of  the  still  inviolate  home  upon  him,  had 
said  with  a  deep,  unanimous  sigh  of  the  spirit,  "Ah,  now, 
at  last,  we  can  sleep  in  safety." 

Even  the  faithful  Miss  Carney  was  to  seek  slumber  on 
this  beneficent  night,  lying  on  the  couch  which  Owen  had 
occupied  in  Richard's  dressing-room,  with  the  door  open 
and  a  night-light  burning.  Under  the  opiate  given  early  in 
the  evening  her  patient  wrould  be  sure  also  to  sleep  tran 
quilly  until  morning.  Mary  took  Sally  off  to  bed  at  nine 
o'clock.  At  half -past  nine  Patton,  yawning  and  stretch- 


408  WORLD'S-END 

ing  like  a  sluggish  colossus  coming  drowsily  to  life,  went 
off  in  search,  of  the  first  unbroken  rest  that  he  had  en 
joyed  since  his  arrival,  two  weeks  ago.  By  ten  the  old 
clock  was  the  one  animated  thing  in  all  the  slumber-muted 
house. 

But  by  the  side  of  Owen.naw  so  dearly  near  her  once 
again  and  fallen  immediately  into  the  deep,  stirless  sleep 
of  exhaustion,  Phoebe  lay,  wide  awake,  watching  the  soft 
shadows  from  the  wood-fire  play  about  the  lovely  room, 
that  seemed  once  more  to  smile  upon  her  with  a  friend's 
countenance.  Was  it  possible  .  .  .  oh !  was  it  possible, — 
that  death  and  fear  had  gone,  and  only  love  was  with 
her? — Might  she  not  wake  up  suddenly  to  find  that  she 
had  been  dreaming,  and  in  her  dream  had  said, — "This 
is  a  dream ' '  ? 

Cautiously, — little  by  little  she  turned  her  head  on  the 
pillow.  No — not  in  dreams  was  a  beloved  face  ever  as 
clear  and  familiar  as  that  dark  face  bent  towards  her 
in  its  sleep — the  lips  parted  by  deep,  tranquil  breaths, — 
the  eyelids,  still  heavy  from  tears,  sealing  so  calmly 
the  tired  eyes.  And  yet — dared  she  but  touch  him— just 
to  reassure  herself  by  yet  another  sense  that  he  was  really 
there — that  this  wonderful,  great  day  of  joy  was  not  illu 
sion,  bvit  glorious,  golden  reality.  Just  to  put  out  her 
hand — light  as  a  feather — and  touch  his  cheek  or  hair. 
But  then  to  run  the  risk  of  waking  him  after  all  that  he 
had  been  through? — No, — she  dared  not.  And  yet — and 
yet — this  hunger  to  touch  him  softly — a  moth 's  wing  touch, 
—the  touch  of  a  petal  on  a  leaf- 
As  if  in  his  sleep  he  felt  the  wistful,  timid  longing,  he 
lifted  one  of  his  arms  and  let  it  drop  across  her  slight 
body.  And,  pinioned  there  by  the  great  arm  which  lay 
leaden  with  sleep  upon  her,  she  smiled  happily,  looking 
down  at  it  from  under  her  lowered  lashes.  More  and 
more  she  smiled  as  a  quaint  fancy  came  to  her.  "Dryad," 
he  called  her  sometimes. — Now  his  arm  lay  across  her  like 
the  great  branch  of  a  tree.  Her  breast  could  hardly  draw 
in  breath  under  that  warm  weight — yet  for  a  long  time 
she  lay  there,  happy  to  be  stifled  by  what  was  so  dear  to 
her.  And  all  Phoebe 's  nature  spoke  in  that  happiness.  To 
love,  to  be  loved, — even  to  be  hurt  by  what  she  loved, — 
this  she  counted  living,  and  the  rest  was  but  shadows  to 
her. 

But  presently  the  fire,  flaring  up  joyous  and  golden, 


WORLD'S-EXD  409 

as  though  it,  too,  were  waking  from  happy  dreams, — 
roused  him  with  the  shaking  of  its  bright  flag  across  his 
face,  and.  turning  a  little  towards  her,  he  withdrew  his 
arm  and  felt  for  her  hand,  kissing  it  in  his  sleep  and  then 
keeping  it  in  his  own  against  his  cheek. 

Raising  herself  on  her  free  arm,  Phoebe  gazed  down  at 
him  in  that  fluctuant  golden  light  that  was  like  the  actual 
glow  from  the  wings  of  happiness.  She  pored  upon  him 
with  parted  lips  and  breath  in-held,  as  Psyche  might  have 
pored  upon  sleeping  Eros,  returned  to  her,  this  time  with 
his  torch  alight  by  his  own  will.  Gone  were  fear  and 
darkness. — gone  was  doubt, — she  looked  on  the  face  of 
love  clear  of  every  shadow ;  in  the  quiet  heart  of  the 
kindly  night, — there  close  to  him,  still  cherished  and  de 
sired  by  him,  knowing  all, — like  lover  and  mother  in  one, 
she  gazed  down  on  him,  made  helpless  by  sleep  like  a  little 
child, — at  the  mercy  of  even  a  weak  hand  like  her  own, 
had  it  been  the  hand  of  hate  instead  of  the  hand  of  love. 
Dearest  and  best  and  greatest-hearted  of  all  the  world, — 
and  he  was  hers  as  she  was  his.  .  .  .  And  as  she  leaned 
there  in  awed,  tender  security, — suddenly,  as  it  had  been 
a  rose-lit  slide,  the  present  was  withdrawn,  and  she  gazed 
back  into  the  steep,  dark  caverns  of  the  past  through 
which  with  so  much  fear  and  so  much  trembling  she  had 
climbed  to  this  wide  place  of  refuge.  She  looked  bravely, 
not  shrinking,  and  saw  herself  as  she  had  been  when  first 
Owen  and  then  that  other  came  into  her  life, — a  self- 
willed,  self-centred  girl, — full  of  a  wild,  imperious  desire 
fcr  life  and  love, — not  rightly  knowing  and  certainly  not 
caring  over-much  in  what  real  life  and  love  consisted.  But 
now  she  knew,  if  only  in  part,  something  of  these  benign 
yet  awful  mysteries;  and  the  new  spirit  in  her  shuddered 
with  a  sort  of  pity  for  what  she  had  then  been ; — for  the 
blindness  and  littleness  and  narrow  passion  of  it  all. 

And  she  sent  her  thought  deeper  still,  and  drew  forth 
the  thing  that  might  have  been  from  those  dark  shadows 
of  the  past.  She  forced  her  mind  to  see  herself  as  Rich 
ard  's  unwanted  wife, — a  creature  for  all  time  abased  in  his 
sight  and  in  her  own, — her  child  cast  off.  .  .  . 

Recoiling  from  this  dread  picture,  another  as  terrible 
confronted  her,  and  she  saw  herself  again,  lying  there 
alone  on  the  mountainside,  dead  by  her  own  hand, — lying 
there  for  days,  perhaps,  until  .  .  . 

Vividly  there  rushed  before  he:.1  Oe  scene  of  her  old 


410  W  O  R  T,  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

father's  grief  and  despair  as  it  might  have  been  when 
he  was  told  of  what  had  been  found  on  the  mountain. 
.  .  .  She  dropped  her  head  on  her  arms  and  trembled 
with  a  sick  horror  of  the  self  that  had  been  hers. 

For  some  moments  she  stayed  thus,  then  again  she  lifted 
herself  and  gazed  down  at  the  face  of  the  man  sleeping  so 
quietly  at  her  side.  Ah,  was  it  strange  that  she  worshipped 
him?  Was  she  not  his  creation?  Had  he  not  given  her 
a  soul?  If  she  had  worshipped  him  before  she  knew, 
would  not  God  Himself  forgive  her  for  worshipping  him 
now? 

In  her  impassioned  young  gratitude  she  felt  a  helpless 
anger  against  the  shortness  of  life.  How  was  she  to  grow 
worthy  of  him  in  such  a  meagre  space  of  time  ?  How  fulfil 
that  burning  ideal  of  herself  that  should  be — make  her 
self  all  glorious  within  like  the  king's  daughter,  as  she 
had  once  told  him  that  she  would  do  ? 

And  again  the  present  was  withdrawn ;  but  now  it  was 
at  the  future  that  she  gazed, — at  the  image  of  herself  as 
she  longed  to  be,  moving  through  a  clear  shining  towards 
the  summits  of  spiritual  attainment.  Yes, — no  purity 
would  be  stronger  than  her  purity,  for  it  would  be  the 
fruit  of  choice  and  not  of  chance;  no  compassion  would 
be  deeper  than  hers, — because  it  would  be  born  of  under 
standing;  no  unselfishness  greater,  for  her  true,  her  real 
self  had  been  given  her  by  the  selfless  love  of  another,  and 
must  be  cherished  only  to  spend  itself  in  things  apart  from 
self, — thus  growing  in  greatness  by  what  it  gave  away,  in 
accordance  with  divine  paradox. 

Ah,  the  little  children  that  she  would  succor.  .  .  .  Her 
heart  swelled  as  she  thought  of  her  own  baby  and  re 
membered  what  had  been  almost  her  chief  agony, — the 
seeing  him  so  tender  with,  what  she  had  thought  that 
he  believed  his  own  while  she  looked  on  in  guilty  si 
lence.  And  her  heart  seemed  to  blush  hot  within  her  at 
this  memory. 

Yet  all  the  time  he  had  known, — he  had  forgiven; — he 
had  forgiven  because  he  understood, — not  standing  aloof 
from  her  in  condescending  self-righteousness, — but  draw 
ing  her  to  his  side  in  that  wonderful  comprehension  that 
saw  the  true  spirit  in  her  through  that  dark  veil  of  her 
mistaken  youth. 

Ah,  the  young  girls  mistaken  as  she  had  been  mistaken, 
— caught  blind  and  wilful  and  reckless  in  the  bright  snare 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  411 

of  romance  and  springtime  passion, — how  tender  and  loving 
she  would  be  to  them,— how  comprehending, — even  as  he 
had  been  to  her.  And  ever  she  would  climb  up  and  up 
towards  those  clear  peaks  that  rose  so  gentle  and  full 
of  a  mysterious  promise  above  the  mists  and  shadows  of 
the  world  in  which  till  now  she  had  been  used  to  move. 
What  did  the  great  words  say?  That  evil  might  exer 
cise  a  stirring  power  .  .  .  point  out  the  path  to  good 
ness  ...  to  the  inner  advance  of  life  ...  to  the  forma 
tion  of  a  new  nature.  .  .  .  Yes,  a  new  nature, — a  new 
life, — a  new  world — all  these  she  would  win, — because  of 
him  and  of  the  soul  that  he  had  given  her.  .  .  . 

A  great  emotion  lifted  her  spirit  as  on  a  rushing  wind. 
For  one  immortal  moment  more  than  love  possessed  it, — 
the  wild  gratitude  of  love  for  love, — the  outgush  of  all  the 
spirit  towards  some  vast,  benevolent  source,  as  it  were  a 
winging  home  to  the  Heart  of  the  universe,  to  give  un 
speakable  thanks.  For  that  moment  of  wild,  purified 
ecstasy  the  pagan  slipped  from  Phoebe's  soul  like  a  frail 
husk, — she  was  rapt  into  unimaginable  heights,  and  all 
her  being  quivered  upward  like  a  thin,  passionate  flame 
towards  its  Source. 

The  next  morning,  shortly  after  breakfast,  Owen  and 
Patton  went  for  a  long  walk  together. 

Patton  was  to  leave  World  's-End  by  the  afternoon  train, 
and  there  was  a  very  serious  and  important  point  that 
Owen  wished  to  discuss  with  him. 

The  day  was  cold  and  glittering.  From  a  sky  of  light, 
bright  blue  a  small  sun  glared  intensely,  as  though 
brought  to  a  focus  by  the  great  burning-glass  of  the  sky. 
The  grey  woods  clung  like  smoke  to  the  mountainsides,  and 
like  smoke  clustered  in  the  folds  of  the  valley.  The  little 
Green-Flower  lay  like  a  torpid,  silver-backed  python 
vainly  trying  to  thaw  itself  in  the  winter  sunlight.  Here 
and  there  some  fields  had  put  on  the  livery  of  spring 
with  the  emerald  plush  of  winter-oats.  There  was  a  great 
antiphonal  in  progress  among  the  crows — two  flights  an 
swering  each  other,  one  from  the  hollow  near  the  oat- 
field, — one  from  Logan's  "Wood. 

Patton  was  smoking  his  briar  as  he  walked,  but  Owen, 
who  preferred  a  tranquil,  sedentary  pipe  after  meals,  had 
already  finished  his  before  leaving  World 's-End,  and  now 
jyalked  with  his  hands  loosely  caught  behind  him,  looking 


,412  WORLD'S-END 

Tip  from  under  his  brows  at  the  mountains  they  were  ap 
proaching. 

In  their  stupendous  tranquillity  they  seemed  like  a  great 
"Credo"  rising  towards  the  suspended  abyss  of  ether, — 
"the  earth's  ''will  to  believe"  made  manifest.  Something 
in  him  responded  to  their  silent  and  immemorial  assertion 
of  an  all-seeing  Unseen,  as  with  a  great  shout  of  the  spirit 
only  spiritually  to  be  heard.  With  bare  majesty  the  ven 
erable  words  strode  through  his  mind : 

"I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from  whence 
cometh  my  help.  ..." 

The  theology  of  the  great  Hebrew  book  might  be  an 
thropomorphic,  but  when  it  spoke  with  the  voice  of  its 
poets  it  spoke  as  with  divinity's  own  voice. 

Another  trumpeting  of  words,  mysteriously  great  and 
potent,  sounded  its  inner  reveille : 

"The  heart  that  abandons  itself  to  the  supreme  mind 
finds  itself  in  relation  to  all  its  works,  and  will  travel  a 
royal  road  to  particular  knowledges  and  powers.  ..." 

There  came  to  him  a  quickening  of  all  his  spirit,  akin 
to  the  ecstatic  motion  which  had  drawn  Phoebe  from  her 
grosser  sheath  the  night  before, — but  with  him  it  was  a 
force  of  more  sobriety, — an  answering  to  the  vast  whole 
with,  "I  agree  and  I  revere," — an  abandonment  in  full 
consciousness  of  all  the  self  to  what  is  selfless,  yet  tran 
scends  individuality,  to  the  supreme  paradox  whose  core 
is  truth. 

Patton  walked  in  silence  beside  him,  feeling  that  to 
gether  they  touched  the  garment  of  a  great  moment  and 
that  virtue  went  from  it  to  them  both. 

As  they  entered  the  first  field  leading  to  the  flank  of  the 
mountain,  Owen  turned  to  him. 

"Charles,"  he  said,  "I  want  your  advice  on  a  very 
grave  question.  Now  that  Richard  is  out  of  danger, — 

there  comes  the  question  of "  he  hesitated,  then  went 

on  firmly,  "of  my  attitude  to  him  and  to  Sally." 

"Yes — I've  been  thinking  of  that,"  said  Patton. 

"He  is  certainly  out  of  danger?" 

"It  will  be  a  long  time  before  he  gets  his  strength,  but 
practically  he  is  out  of  danger." 

Owen  hesitated  again  and  grew  white. 

"That  arm  .  .  .   ?"  he  said. 

Patton  looked  grim.  It  was  the  look  that  came  on  his 
face  when  he  had  an  operation  to  perform  in  a  case  that 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D  413 

could  only  be  locally  anaesthetized.  "I  can't  tell  you  yet, 
old  man.  It  may  be  stiff — he  may  pull  through." 

They  walked  in  silence  for  some  moments. 

Then  Owen  said,  a  hoarseness  in  his  voice : 

"What  I  want  to  ask  you  is  about  telling  Sally  .  .  .  the 
truth." 

"I  see,"  said  Patton.  He  pulled  hard  at  his  pipe  with 
out  noticing  that  it  had  gone  out. 

There  wras  another  silence. 

"Will  he  ...  remember  clearly,  Charles?" 

"Not  clearly,  I  think.     But.  ..." 

He,  too,  hesitated. 

"You  see,"  said  Owen  in  an  even  tone,  "the  first  blow 
only  dazed  him.  He — he  looked  at  me.  ..." 

"He'll  remember  essentials,"  said  Patton  stolidly. 

"I  thought  that." 

Silence  fell  again. 

Suddenly  Patton  said  rather  gruffly: 

"I  wouldn't  go  over  it,  old  man.    What's  the  use?" 

"No  use,  Charles.  At  first  I  didn't  care  one  way  or  the 
other.  Then  I  went  down  .  .  .  there  are  depths,  you 
know.  ..." 

Acute  pain  twisted  Patton 's  face  for  a  moment,  then  he 
said  quietly : 

"Yes— I  know." 

It  was  he  who  again  broke  the  silence. 

"See  here,  old  man.  I  think  I've  got  the  gist  of  what 
you  want  to  ask  me.  Shall  I  put  it  for  you?" 

"Thanks — yes,"  said  Owen. 

"I've  hammered  at  it  a  good  bit  in  my  own  mind.  When 
Richard  is  strong  enough  the  chances  are  that  he'll  tell 
his  mother  the  truth.  I  say  chances, — for  he  may  ..." 
( Patton 's  italics  here  were  very  expressive  of  his  opinion 
of  Richard)  .  .  .  "he  may, — out  of  consideration  for  her 
health, — decide  not  to  speak.  You  know  him  better  than 
I  do.  What  do  you  think?" 

"I've  gone  over  that,"  answered  Owen,  "and  I 
think  that,  while  he  will  shrink  from  telling  her,  the — 
the  circumstances  are  such  that  he  will  feel  compelled 
to." 

"Ah, — that  settles  matters,  then." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"I  think  it  will  be  better  for  you  to  tell  her  yourself. 
If  he  blurts  it  out  to  her  like  that  .  .  .  lying  there.  ..." 


414.  WORLD'S-END 

His  broken  sentences  were  more  expressive  than  words 
could  have  been. 

Owen's  teeth  caught  his  under-lip  and  held  it. 

Presently  he  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"You  don't  think  this  second  shock  will  be  too  much 
for  her?" 

"It  won't  be  good  for  her,  of  course.  ,  But  it  will  be 
better  than  the  other  way.  Sally  is  much  better  than  she 
was  last  winter.  I  doubt  if  she  could  have  weathered  these 
past  two  weeks  then." 

' '  Shall  I  tell  her  today — while  you  are  here  ? ' ' 

Patton  thought  hard  for  a  few  moments. 

"Better  wait  a  while,"  he  said  at  last.  "The  boy  won't 
be  able  to  talk  coherently  for  some  days.  You  see,  she 
had  one  violent  shock  last  night.  It  was  a  shock  of  joy, 
true — but  it  got  in  its  work  just  the  same.  I  shall  have 
to  keep  Kichard  under  opiates  for  at  least  a  week  more. 
Suppose  we  wait  until  I  come  tomorrow  to  settle  the 
time?" 

"Just  as  you  think,  of  course,"  said  Owen  slowly. 

Patton  stole  a  glance  full  of  shy  affection  at  the  dark, 
preoccupied  face.  Then  he  suddenly  hooked  his  arm  in 
the  other's. 

"I  say,  Owen,"  he  mumbled.  "I'd  knock  these  memo 
ries  higher  than  a  kite  if  I  were  you. ' ' 

Owen  smiled.     It  was  a  very  sad,  sane   smile. 

"Cockle-burrs  are  a  better  simile  for  memories  than 
kites,  Charles,"  he  said. 

"Then  I'm  dashed  if  I  wouldn't  chuck  cockle-burrs, 
coat  and  all,  into  the  fire,"  retorted  Patton  grimly. 

"You  forget  my  mind's  the  coat  in  this  case." 

Patton  was  silent.  The  words  "physician,  heal  thyself," 
occurred  to  him.  Who  knew  better  than  he  did  that 
memories  are  not  subject  to  the  will  of  man? — Who  knew 
better  than  he.  ...  A  rigour  ran  through  him.  He 
withdrew  his  arm  and  busied  himself  with  refilling  his 
pipe.  His  hands  were  shaking. 

They  had  reached  a  fence,  beyond  which  rose  a  grove 
of  noble  oaks  and  chestnuts.  Through  their  trunks  could 
be  seen  an  old  brick  wall,  violet-brown  with  age  and 
thickly  crusted  with  moss  and  lichen. 

"The  old  Randolph  burial-ground — hey?"  asked  Pat- 
ton,  glad  for  even  this  lugubrious  change  of  subject. 

"Yes.    Shall  we  take  a  look?    The  key  is  here  under  a 


W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  X  D  415 

flat  stone — a  queer  old  custom  that  I've  never 
changed." 

"Yes,  let's,"  said  Patton.  "It's  a  beautiful  spot.  See 
how  those  wild  grapevines  have  grown  from  tree  to  tree, 
making  them  look  like  one  huge  banyan.  .  .  .  And  the 
valley  there  at  its  feet  .  .  .  and  the  mountain  keeping 
guard.  They  should  sleep  sound,  those  old  Randolphs." 

"Yes.     I  love  the  place,"  said  Owen. 

He  found  the  big,  rusty  key  and  opened  the  old  iron 
gate  between  its  brick  posts,  surmounted  by  balls  of  stone, 
from  each  of  which  rose  a  dexter  hand  holding  a  toma 
hawk. 

Owen  pointed  to  them  with  the  key.  "The  old  ex 
plorer's  crest,  invented  by  himself,  before  the  discovery 
of  the  famous  nag's-head,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"Fine  old  fellow,"  said  Patton  heartily.  "Is  he  buried 
here?" 

"Yes.  There  he  is.  He  was  the  third  Owen  Randolph, 
you  know.  He  built  the  central  part  of  the  house  that's 
now  standing." 

Patton  turned  about  on  the  thick  carpet  of  periwinkle 
that  ran  from  high  wall  to  wall  of  an  enclosure  about 
eighty  feet  square.  The  tombstones  were  all  very  simple, 
of  white  marble  beautifully  toned  by  age  and  weather. 
On  this  one  which  stood  slightly  apart,  with  one  other, 
from  the  rest  was  carved : 

My  Father 

OWEN  RANDOLPH 

Born  Jan.  15—1715 
Died  Nov.  9—1795 

Ingenium  nemo  sine  corpore  exercebat;  optimus 
quisqiie  facere  quam  dicere,  sua  a&  aliis  bene 
facta  laudare,  quam  ipse  aliorum  narrare  malebat. 

"A  fine  old  chap  ...  a  fine  old  chap  ..."  murmured 
Patton  again,  reading  over  the  stately  Latin  words.  "Did 
he  choose  that  reticent  epitaph  himself,  do  you  know? — It 
would  be  like  what  I've  read  of  him." 

"Yes,  it  would  be  like  him,  but  it  was  more  like  him.  not 
to  choose  any,  I  think.  He  even  stated  in  his  will  that 
he  didn't  wish  any  laudatory  words  put  on  his  grave- 


416  W  O  R  L  D  '  S  -  E  N  D 

stone,  and  so  his  son  got  round  it  rather  well,  I  think,  by 
quoting  that  bit  from  Sallust.  It  agrees  so  exactly  with 
the  father's  views  on  the  subject — 'each  best  man  pre 
ferred  to  do  rather  than  to  say. '  ! 

"It's  the  old  statesman  in  a  nutshell,"  said  Patton  mus 
ingly.  "Fine  stock  you  come  from,  old  man." 

Owen  stood  also  musing  on  the  simple  headstone. 

"They  say  I  hark  back  to  that  Owen,"  he  said  at  last. 
"He  was  a  man  of  enormous  strength  and  violent  pas 
sions.  ' ' 

"Yes,  so  I've  heard — so  I've  heard,"  said  Patton  hastily. 
"Could  tear  a  double  'deck'  of  cards  in  two,  I  believe* 
and  tie  a  poker  round  his  neck  like  a  cravat. ' ' 

"So  tradition  says." 

' '  Member  of  the  House  of  Burgesses,  Councillor  of  State, 
— Commissioner  for  boundary  lines,  treaties  with  In 
dians, — explorer, — patriot, — what  didn't  the  old  fellow 
do? — You'll  have  to  look  lively  to  keep  up  with  him, 
Owen." 

Owen  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  he'd  disinherit  me  if  he  had  the  power," 
he  said.  ' '  Whatever  he  was,  I  'm  sure  he  wasn  't  socialistic 
in  tendency." 

"But  you're  not  an  out  and  out  socialist,  old  man." 

"I  can't  buckle  on  any  fixed  creed  and  work  in  it, 
Charles.  You  might  call  me  a  question-asker.  I  try  to 
ask  practically.  I'm  not  content  with  answers  in  the  air. 
But  I've  never  yet  found  a  solution, — neither  mine  nor 
other  men's, — that  I  could  accept  in  ioto.  In  the  mean 
time  ..." 

"You  'do  your  damnedest — angels  could  do  no  more,'  3 
put  in  Patton  quickly,  and  they  both  stifled  a  laugh  out 
of  respect  for  the  quiet  sanctity  of  the  place  where  men 
and  women  lay  resting  after  the  long  day. 

As  they  turned  to  go  Patton  said : 

"I  hope  you'll  have  a  son  some  day  to  carry  on  the  old 
name. ' ' 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Owen  quietly. 

They  struck  through  a  field  to  the  left,  and,  entering 
the  woods,  began  to  climb  the  mountain. 

"That's  a  lovely  child  you've  married,  Owen,"  said 
Patton  presently.  "She's  going  to  make  a  splendid 
woman.  You  must  cosset  her  up  a  bit  now,  though.  We 
neglected  her  rather  badly  during  all  this  turmoil.  I've 


WORLD'S-END  417 

an  idea  she  doesn't  feel  quite  as  strong  as  she  pretends 
to." 

lie  gave  one  of  his  shrewd,  sidelong  glances  at  Owen,  but 
the  dark  face  was  quite  unconscious.  "Doesn't  know  yet," 
thought  Patton.  "Just  as  well,  too.  Might  get  to  worry 
ing  badly  over  what  all  this  might  mean  to  her." 

So  Mary  had  been  right,  after  all. 

The  chief  memory  that  Richard  brought  out  of  the  dark 
undertow  of  death  was  the  memory  of  a  gigantic  Face  that 
readied  from  the  heavens  to  the  uttermost  depths  of  that 
sea  in  which  he  seemed  alternately  to  drown  or  with  agony 
to  float  upward.  And  whether  he  sank,  smothering,  or 
floated  racked  by  the  tossing  of  angry  waves  which  seemed 
to  be  jerking  his  bones  asunder, — always  that  vast  Face, 
turgid  with  annihilating  wrath,  glared  at  him.  Power, 
evil  and  irresistible,  had  taken  to  itself  a  shape  and 
poured  destruction  on  him  from  those  dreadful  eye-sockets 
and  drawn-back  swollen  lips.  It  was  the  Face  of  wrath, 
of  vengeance,  of  ruthlessness — the  stark  visage  of  mur 
der  filling  earth  and  sky — and  its  likeness  was  that  of 
a  face  that  he  had  once  known  only  gentle  and  benevo 
lent.  .  .  . 

And  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  huge  Face, — so  implac 
able  with  the  lurid  lighting  of  eyes  that  thirsted  for  re 
venge, — was  the  persona  through  which  sounded  the  voice 
of  the  universe.  Those  snarled-back  lips  were  the  grim 
curtains  of  a  gateway  into  which  he  would  be  eventually 
sucked  and  ground  to  pulp  between  great  fangs,  jagged 
and  preposterous  as  mountains — a  serried  range  of  teeth, 
arming  those  hot  jaws  that  slavered  with  the  lust  of  de 
vouring. 

It  was  against  this  face  that  he  struggled  and  shrieked, 
in  such  moments  as  the  opiates  relaxed  their  hold  on  him, 
and  when  the  strong  tentacles  of  morphia  wrapt  him 
again,  holding  him  numb  and  heavy  in  those  black  depths 
it  was  at  this  face,  glaring  down  at  him  as  through  miles 
of  sullen  water,  that  he  moaned  and  muttered  feebly. 

Even  after  he  regained  his  senses  and  began  slowly,  so 
slowly,  to  mend, — this  face,  remembered,  was  a  torture. 
And  lying  there,  transfixed  by  weakness  and  the  heavy 
plaster,  in  which  his  right  arm  was  still  set,  he  would 
strive  pitifully  by  the  hour  to  recall  exactly  what  had 
happened, — to  put  into  some  sequence  the  events  which 


418  WORLD'S^- END 

had  preceded  his  illness.  "What  had  he  said? — He  could 
not  recall  the  words. — They  had  been  in  the  rose  garden, — 
the  snow  was  very  smooth  and  deep, — she  had  stared  at 
him  with  helpless  rage  as  one  impaled  might  stare  at  the 
executioner. — Yes,  that  was  the  way  it  had  begun. — But 
afterwards?  Only  the  memory  of  that  kind  face  made 
hideous  by  fury  would  come  to  him, — of  that  face  and 
the  lifted  stick. 

And  how  much  did  his  mother  know? — Did  they  all 
know? — Had  she  told  everything  by  now? — How  long  ago 
had  it  all  happened?  What  was  to  come  next? — 

One  day,  when  he  could  bear  it  no  longer  he  lay  gather 
ing  his  scattered  forces  for  a  long  time,  then  just  man 
aged  to  articulate : 

"Mother.  .  .  ." 

She  was  on  her  knees  by  him  in  a  second,  her  face  close 
to  his. 

"My  precious  boy  .  .  .  don't  exert  yourself.  I'm  here. 
...  I'm  always  here.  ..." 

He  looked  down  at  his  bandaged  arm  in  the  cast,  heavy 
as  stone. 

"How?  .  .  ."he  whispered. 

"It  was  that  cursed  horse  .  .  .  'Ironmonger,'  the  vi 
cious  colt.  Don't  think  about  it,  my  darling! — Charles 
Patton  says  you  will  be  quite,  quite  well  again.  As  well 
and  strong  as  ever,  my  darling — my  own  precious  boy." 

Eichard  smiled  weakly  at  her,  and  let  his  eyes  close. 

So  that  was  what  they  had  said! 

He  was  too  weak  to  follow  it  out.  He  fell  shortly  into 
a  thick  sleep. 

A  week  later  Hannah  brought  a  little  note  to  Sally 
from  Owen,  as  during  one  of  Richard's  heavy,  still 
drugged  sleeps  she  was  taking  a  few  moments  to  comb  out 
her  hair,  now  almost  entirely  grey.  This  startled  her  a 
little.  Things  startled  her  very  easily  nowadays.  The 
colour  settled  on  her  cheek  bones  as  she  read : 

''DEAR  SALLY:  I  write  because  I  want  to  make  sure  that  you 
will  come  at  once,  and  not  think  this  only  an  ordinary  message. 
Patton  is  with  me,  and  I  wish  very  much  to  consult  you  about 
something. 

' '  OWEN.  ' ' 

"Where  is  he?"  she  said,  scrutinising  the  little  dark 
face  to  find  whether  Hannah  were  in  the  secret.  But 


WORLD'S-EXD  419 

Plannah  knew  nothing,  and  her  face  was  serene  and  uncon 
scious,  though  it  looked  grave,  as  all  faces  did  during  that 
time  at  World 's-End. 

"He  an'  the  doctor's  in  the  steddy,  Miss  Sally,"  she 
said.  "Mr.  Owen  said  he'd  like  to  see  you  right  away, 
please,  while  Mr.  Richard's  asleep." 

Sally  went  slowly  downstairs  to  Owen's  study,  cogitat 
ing  deeply  all  the  way.  Her  heart  had  begun  to  beat 
quickly.  Could  it, — might  it  be  ...  something  about  that 
dark  secret  that  hung  over  her  always?  .  .  . 

She  entered  and,  still  holding  the  knob  of  the  study  door 
in  her  hand,  looked  steadily  at  the  two  men  who  were 
standing  before  the  fire. 

Owen  came  forward  and,  taking  her  hand,  gently  led 
her  to  a  chair. 

"Well?"  said  Sally  drily,  looking  from  one  to  the  other 
of  them.  "This  is  rather  like  being  brought  before  the 
Vehmgericht.  ..." 

Patton  came  to  the  rescue. 

"The  fact  is,  Sally,"  he  said,  "Owen  has  something 
that  he  feels  he  must  tell  you.  There's  nothing  whatever 
in  it  to  alarm  you,  but  it  will  probably  upset  you  a  good 
deal.  I  want  you  to  take  this  if  your  heart  begins  thump 
ing."  He  pushed  a  little  glass  towards  her.  "I  shall  go 
into  the  library  until  you  and  Owen  have  finished." 

He  got  up  without  more  ado  and  left  the  room. 

Sally  had  grown  very  pale.  Her  thin  hands  were  locked 
hard  together  upon  her  knee.  Suddenly  the  greyness  of 
her  thick  hair  framing  her  dark,  sallow  face  struck  Owen 
as  terribly  pathetic.  It  was  as  if  she  were  crowned  with 
the  ashes  of  her  burnt-out  life. 

He  came  and  stood  near  her,  looking  down  at  her.  His 
lip  quivered. 

"Sally,"  he  said  at  last,  "we've  been  awfully  fond  of 
each  other.  ..." 

"Why  do  you  say  'we  have  been'?"  she  broke  in 
sharply,  her  figure  rigid,  her  heart  taking  a  still  quicker 
rhythm.  "What  is  it,  Owen? — For  God's  sake  let  me 
have  it  quick.  ..." 

He  grew  so  white  that  she  got  up  and  stood  close  to 
him,  putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Is  it  about  Richard?" 

"Yes." 


420  WORLD'S-END 

She  took  her  hand  from  his  shoulder  and  put  it  to  her 
heart. 

"And  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  you?" 

"Yes,  Sally." 

"And  .  .  ." 

He  spoke  in  a  firmer  tone,  forcing  himself  to  meet  her 
eyes. 

"It's  about  us  all,  Sally.  You, — me, — Richard  .  .  ." 
He  paused.  "...  Phoebe,"  he  ended  almost  inaudibly. 

Sally  dropped  back  into  her  chair  as  if  from  a  blow,  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  thin,  twitching  hands. 

She  heard  Owen's  voice  saying: 

"Take  this  .  .  .  there's  worse  to  come,"  and  felt  the 
touch  of  the  wine  glass  against  her  hand.  Still  keeping 
one  hand  against  her  cheek,  she  drank  the  medicine  me 
chanically. 

"...  Worse?"  she  then  whispered  with  that  little 
croak  that  intense  emotion  brought  to  her  voice. 

' '  Much  worse,  my  poor  girl.  ...  I  want  to  tell  you  .  .  . 
I  must  tell  you  .  .  .  Sally, — 'Ironmonger'  didn't  savage 
Richard.  He  wasn't  hurt  by  a  horse.  .  .  .  He  ..." 

He  turned  with  his  back  to  her,  staring  into  the  fire. 
He  did  not  choose  to  see  her  face,  nor  that  she  should  see 
his  in  that  moment. 

"It  was  I — who  did  it,"  he  said  very  low,  but  distinctly. 

She  did  not  stir  or  utter  a  sound. 

He  went  on  without  looking  round. 

"I've  always  known,"  he  said.  "I  mean  about  Richard 
and" — he  paused  again — "and  .  .  .  Phoebe." 

Still  she  did  not  stir  nor  speak.    He  went  on : 

"He  said  some  vile  words  to  her.  I  went  mad.  ...  I 
had  father's  ash  in  my  hand.  ..." 

He  stopped,  and  the  silence  seemed  muffled  and  roaring 
as  when  one's  hands  are  over  one's  ears. 

Then  at  last  she  spoke. 

"I  knew  it,"  she  said  in  a  deathly  voice.  "I  knew  .  .  . 
it  ...  would  .  .  .  come.  0  God!"  She  screamed  on  the 
word  suddenly,  as  when  Patton  had  told  her  that  Richard 
would  live.  "My  brother!  .  .  .  my  son!  ..." 

Patton  wrenched  open  the  door  and  dashed  to  her.  He 
took  her  bodily  in  his  arms  and  laid  her  upon  the  leather 
lounge. 

"Go  .  .  ,"  he  said  under  his  breath  to  Owen.  "Go 
away  .  .  .  quick!  ..." 


WORLD'S-END  421 

Owen  went  out  and  straight  to  his  own  bedroom.  He 
locked  the  door  and,  sinking  into  a  chair  by  the  bed,  hid 
his  face  in  his  arms  against  the  pillow. 

It  was  not  until  the  middle  of  February  that  Richard 
was  strong  enough  to  be  moved.  He  passionately  desired 
to  get  away  from  AVorld  's-End,  and  Patton  thought  it  the 
best  thing  for  him. 

They  had  decided  to  take  him  to  a  piney  seacoast  in 
Georgia,  and  Patton  and  Mary  were  to  accompany  them 
on  the  journey,  Mary  staying  on  to  be  with  Sally.  Miss 
Carney  was  also  to  be  kept  on  until  Richard  was  quite 
strong  again. 

Two  days  before  they  left  Owen  came  to  the  door  of 
Sally's  room. 

"Come  in,  Owen,"  she  said,  recognising  his  knock. 

Pie  entered  arid  went  towards  her  hesitatingly,  but  she 
came  to  meet  him.  She  had  been  very  ill  after  tbat  second 
terrible  blow,  and  her  face  had  the  greyish  look  that 
seems  like  a  fine  dust  fallen  from  Death's  wings  in  passing. 
She  came  right  up  to  him  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoul 
ders.  Her  great  eyes  were  inscrutable  and  unfathomably 
sad. 

"After  all  .  .  ."  she  said,  ".  .  .  my  brother.  ..." 

Owen's  face  began  to  twitch.  He  hid  it  on  her  thin 
shoulder.  She  put  her  hand  up  to  it.  He  could  feel  her 
rings  cold  through  his  hair. 

"The  bitterness  of  death,  .  .  ."  he  heard  her  whisper, 
"is  past." 

They  sat  silent  for  a  long  time,  close  together,  gazing 
into  the  fire,  hand  in  hand  as  when  they  had  been  chil 
dren. 

Then  Owen  stirred,  and,  taking  a  legal  paper  from  his 
breast,  laid  it  upon  her  knee. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  recoiling. 

"For  Richard,"  he  said  gently. 

"For  .  .  .?" 

She  took  up  the  paper  and  turned  it  curiously  in  her 
hands. 

' '  What  is  it  ? "  she  asked  again. 

"My  will,  Sally." 

"You  ...  you  ..  .?" 

"I  have  left  him  the  estate  in  Florida  and  some  prop 
erty  on  Broadway." 


422  WORLD'S-END 

"You  have  .  .  .     You  .  .  .   ?" 

She  could  not  articulate.  Suddenly  she  who  never  wept 
leaned  down  across  his  knees  and  cried  as  if  her  poor,  sick 
heart  would  break. 

Perhaps  the  most  insupportable  moment  of  Richard's 
life  was  that  in  which  his  mother  put  the  copy  of  his 
uncle's  will  upon  the  counterpane  and  told  him  of  its 
contents.  One  harsh  exclamation  broke  from  him,  a  dark 
flush  bathed  his  face — then  he  turned  it  away,  and  even 
her  tender  coaxing  could  not  win  a  word  from  him  for 
hours. 

On  the  eve  of  their  departure  from  World  's-End, — about 
midnight, — Giles,  who  was  a  very  light  sleeper,  was  roused 
by  the  gleam  of  a  shaded  candle  in  the  nursery.  Thinking 
that  it  was  Phoebe  come  to  ask  her  help  about  something, 
she  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  behind  the  bed-curtains, 
preparatory  to  getting  up.  Then,  rather  indignant  and 
a  little  alarmed,  she  kept  quite  still,  watchful, — ready 
to  pounce  at  the  least  sign  of  anything  unusual.  For 
it  was  not  Phoebe  who  stood  there  by  the  baby 's  crib  with 
that  shaded  candle,  but  the  grim,  dark  lady  with  the  bony 
hands  and  hard  black  eyes  that  Giles  "couldn't  abide." 
Her  long  dressing-gown  of  violet  velvet  hung  on  her  ema 
ciated  body  and  trailed  out  behind  her  like  a  pall.  She 
looked  "  as  I  'm  a  Christian  for  all  the  world  like  a  dismal 
coffin  stood  on  its  end,"  Giles  told  Hannah  the  next  day. 
"It  was  like  some  grisly  visitation  to  see  her  a-standm." 
there  in  the  bowels  o '  the  night,  creep-mousin '  them  grave- 
yardish  eyes  o'  hern  over  the  blessed  lamb,  an'  her  that 
innocent  a-slumberin'  on  as  though  a  angel  of  the  Lord 
was  come  to  kiss  her." 

Giles  could  not  tell  how  long  that  solemn,  ominous  figure 
stood  there ;  she  had  no  watch  by  her, — but  when  it  finally 
withdrew  her  arm  was  all  "pins  and  needles,"  she  told 
Hannah. 

Deep,  deep  in  her  heart,  as  on  a  sensitive  film,  Sally  was 
fixing  the  face  of  her  sleeping  grandchild.  She  knew  that 
she  might  never  see  it  again,  though  they  had  assured  her 
that  with  care  she  might  live  for  many  years.  Still.  .  .  . 

Shading  the  flame  with  her  thin  fingers,  in  which  the 
bones  showed  painfully  through  the  flesh  thus  made  rose- 
gold  and  transparent,  she  bent  over  and  kissed  the  little 


WORLD'S-END  423 

face.  The  baby  screwed  all  her  wee  features  into  a  bunch 
of  protest,  and  vigorously  with  the  back  of  one  hand  she 
scrubbed  her  month  and  btidlike  noso,  as  though  a  cobweb 
had  siiv1  i  -nly  blown  across  them.  Then,  with  a  smiling 
sigh  and  stretch  that  arched  her  whole  little  body  from 
head  to  feet, — sucking  comfortably  her  own  lower  lip, — 
.she  sank  again  into  her  fragrant  sleep. 

Giles,  on  whom  in  her  uncovered  state  a  draught  had 
been  playing,  here  sneezed  so  violently  that  her  head 
bobbed  downward.  "When  she  looked  up  the  tall,  violet- 
shrouded  figure  was  gone. 

When  Sally  reached  her  own  room  again  she  in  her  turn 
was  startled  by  a  figure  that  stood  near  her  fire  and  turned 
to  meet  her; — a  figure  with  half-scared,  yet  very  brave, 
dilated  eyes,  and  a  long  rope  of  sorrel-gold  hanging  across 
one  shoulder. 

"Cousin  Sally,"  said  Phoebe  in  that  muted  voice  of 
hers,  "I  ...  I  ...  couldn't  bear  to  say  'good-bye'  be 
fore  the  others.  I  ...  I  ...  want  to  thank  you.  ..." 

"To  thank  me,  child?"  broke  in  Sally,  with  a  fierce 
sound  that  was  half  mirth,  half  misery.  "You  have  little 
to  thank  me  for,  I  must  say." 

"You  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  were  kind  to  me  .  .  .  once  ..." 
murmured  Phoebe,"  her  voice  shaken  by  the  beating  of 
her  heart. 

Suddenly  Sally's  face  relaxed. 

"We  have  all  suffered/''  she  said. 

A  silence  fell. 

"Would  you  .  .  .  would  you  like  to  see  the  baby  .  .  . 
alone?"  ventured  Phoebe,  almost  whispering. 

"Thank  you.     I  have  just  seen  her." 

"Then  .  .  .  good-bye,  Cousin  Sally.  I  ...  I  am  sorry 
for  all  that  .  .  .  that's  come  on  you  .  .  .  through  me." 

"There  was  blame  on  both  sides,"  said  Sally  firmly. 

"Could  you  ..."  Phoebe  began,  trembling  all  over. 
' '  Could  you  .  .  .  forgive  us  ...  me  and  .  .  .  my  baby  ? ' ' 
she  said,  her  teeth  chattering. 

Sally  shrugged  the  heavy  violet  garment  fom  her  gaunt 
shoulders  with  a  dexterous  movement.  With  her  deft,  nerv 
ous  hands,  almost  in  the  same  movement,  she  threw  it  about 
Phoebe. 

"There  .  .  .  you  were  catching  cold,"  she  said.  "Good 
night.  There  is  a  great  deal  that  we  can  all  forgive  one 
another.  Good  night.  Good-bye." 


424  WORLD  'S-END 

''Good-bye,  Cousin  Sally,"  whispered  the  girl.  She  half 
lifted  her  hand.  Sally  visibly  hesitated,  then  took  it 
loosely  in  her  hard  fingers. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said  again.  She  let  a  sort  of  grim 
smile  lift  the  corner  of  her  lip.  "I  may  get  more  cordial 
as  I  grow  older,"  she  said.  "I  was  never  a  gushing  per 
son,  you  know." 

"No, "said  Phoebe  gently.    "Then  .  .  .  good-bye." 

Once  more  Sally  said  good-bye.  She  watched  the  slight 
young  figure  with  the  rope  of  gold  that  seemed  biting  into 
the  dark  velvet  like  a  fire  pass  out  and  turn  to  the  left 
along  the  corridor.  Then  she  shut  the  door  quietly.  Tak 
ing  off  her  small  enamelled  watch,  she  began  winding  it  for 
the  night,  looking  coldly  and  steadily  into  the  fire  as  she 
did  so. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  time  drew  near  for  Richard 
and  Sally  to  leave  World 's-End,  Owen  took  Phoebe  in  hia 
arms  and  told  her  to  walk  towards  Logan's  "Wood,  and 
that,  as  soon  as  the  carriage  had  driven  off,  he  would  catch 
her  up.  She  obeyed  him  silently. 

When  she  reached  the  high  field  at  the  wood's  edge  she 
sat  down  on  a  felled  log  to  wait  for  him. 

To  her  left  lay  World 's-End  in  its  smoke  of  winter  trees. 
Above  them  the  real  smoke  from  its  dark  red  chimneys 
spiralled  softly,  dimly  blue  into  the  clear  air.  To  her  right 
the  foothills  went  tumbling  like  gay,  blue-clad  hoydens  to 
the  distant  valley,  and  beyond  them  rose  the  mountains, 
stern,  austere,  like  patriarchs  coldly  watching  the  antics  of 
an  undignified  generation.  "Why  hop  ye  so,  ye  little 
hills  ? ' '  they  seemed  asking  from  under  beetling  brows. 

And  below,  straight  away  on  every  side,  the  broad  valley 
heaved  softly  to  the  sea.  As  on  that  terrible  day,  just  be 
fore  the  New  Year,  snow  wrapped  the  quiet  earth.  White 
and  blue,  as  though  dedicated  to  the  Virgin,  was  the 
lovely  day. 

Then  Phoebe's  heart  checked.  She  put  up  her  hands 
to  it  and  her  eyes  grew  black. 

A  carriage  had  emerged  from  the  gateway  of  the  south 
ern  lawn.  It  went  at  a  slow,  steady  trot  along  the  road 
towards  Crewe.  Strange  and  out  of  place  it  looked  in  the 
spotless  landscape,  slowly  moving  like  some  great  beetle 
numbed  with  cold  crawling  along  the  soft  ermine  of  the 
snow. 

And  yet  in  th^t  small  black,  glistening  box  so  quaintly 


WORLD'S-END  425 

mounted  on  its  orange  wheels, — Nemesis  herself  was  being 
borne  away,  her  dark  wings  crumpled,  her  bow  broken,  her 
shafts  unfeathered. 

As  in  a  strange  white  dream,  on  which  this  one  blot  had 
fallen  from  some  ink-well  of  the  recording  gods, — Phoebe, 
hand  on  heart,  watched  the  black  shining  patch  slowly, 
steadily  receding  over  the  snowy  fields. 

And  now  Owen's  voice  spoke  close  beside  her.  She 
started  to  her  name  and  sprang  up.  lie  took  her  hand  in 
his,  and  thus,  hand  in  hand,  they  both  stood  watching  that 
beetle-like  shape  that  grew  ever  smaller  and  smaller  as  it 
went  from  them  across  the  valley. 

Suddenly,  high  overhead,  a  buzzard  came  slanting  down 
some  upper  strata  of  the  wind.  Below  him  his  dark 
shadow  glided  over  the  dazzling  snow.  He  tacked,  flying 
in  the  direction  of  the  carriage.  And  these  three  dark 
objects,  one  high  in  air, — one  tracking  the  pure  snow, — 
one  stealing  over  it  yet  leaving  no  stain  behind, — all  went 
from  them  towards  the  far  horizon  line. 

Then  the  carriage  disappeared  into  the  "  flat- woods, " — 
the  buzzard  wheeled  and  dropped,  his  shadow  vanishing 
with  him.  All  was  white  and  immaculate  again. 

She  turned  and  faced  Owen  with  a  tremulous,  wondering 
smile.  He  held  out  his  arms  to  her.  Suddenly  she  quiv 
ered,  straightened  as  she  had  done  that  night  at  Gaunt 's 
Hill.  Her  hand  went  to  her  side.  But  now  there  was  no 
terror  in  her  eyes, — only  the  bright,  wild  look  of  a  nesting- 
bird. 

"What  is  it?  ...  What  is  it,  my  darling?"  he  asked 
as  he  had  asked  then. 

"Owen  .  .  .  Owen  ..."  she  stammered,  her  breath  in- 
held. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms.  "What  is  it,  my  dear  .  .  . 
my  winsome?"  he  asked  again. 

She  laid  her  cheek  against  his  breast,  holding  him  to 
her  closer,  closer,  with  both  arms.  He  could  just  hear  the 
soft  whisper: 

"Oh,  if  I  could  give  you  a  son!" 


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